Rewound
by e-dog
Summary: Greg Sanders finds himself repeating the same 24 hour period over and over again.
1. 1 pm

Disclaimer: Not mine. CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and its characters are property of CBS Productions, Alliance Atlantis ® and Jerry Bruckheimer Television. Just borrowing.

Author's Notes: This fic idea came about after watching Groundhog Day nearly a year ago. So, yes, if you were wondering, it's based loosely on that movie. I also ship Greg with a lot of people. This fic gave me the freedom to explore them all in various fashions, both realistically and idealistically. laughs Anyway, I do eventually settle on one ship. Enjoy.

Category: Humor, Romance, Angst and a bit of Action

Summary: Greg Sanders finds himself repeating the same 24 hour period over and over again.

**Rewound**

by e-dog

**Chapter One**

**1:00 p.m.**

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

A song filters into your consciousness softly, yet boldly.

_"And the tears come streaming down your face._

_When you lose something you can't replace."_

The lyrics continue to play as you open your eyes to a brand new day. You find yourself subconsciously bobbing your head to the slow beat coming out of the radio. You reluctantly crawl out of your bed and lurch toward the bathroom.

Leaving the door open to hear the rest of the song, you crank on the water and splash the cold liquid on your face. You blink your eyes several times listening to your favorite show hit the airwaves next.

_"Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!"_

"Morning, Dan," you grin into the mirror, inspecting the emergence of new zits on that precious forehead of yours. Drat! Foiled by acne! Your next quest is for pimple cream because unsightly zits will not help when trying to hit on chicks. You, Warrick and Nick plan on bar crawling early after shift and well, it wouldn't hurt to try your luck. Someone out there finds you attractive, you hope. You wish. You pray. Anyway, those zits have to go.

_"That was Coldplay with "Fix You". Up next, more hits, but first we're gonna check in on Bobby with our traffic report. Bobby?"_

_"Thanks Dan! A major accident just outside Scotty's Junction, so if you can, avoid that mess at all costs!"_

"Will do, Bobby," you say, continuing to converse with your radio as you throw open your closet door, searching for a fresh set of clothes. It's times like this you're grateful for your independent bachelor life. A girlfriend might find it a bit odd that your closest friend happens to be Dan the Man from KMRK radio. A person you have neither met nor talked to in person, but happily speak to on a daily basis over FM radio waves.

Foregoing the shower, you throw on a ratty t-shirt and some jeans. A quick assessment of your loft's kitchenette quickly concludes that you are out of milk, bread and coffee. All necessary to start each day. Unfortunately, a trip to the grocery store is in order and food is something you're having trouble affording right now. You literally slide down the banister in the stairwell of your apartment complex and out the front door. You have the misfortune of running into your landlady.

"Mr. Sanders! Need I remind you that you're late paying the rent?" she prods, her beady eyes squinting ever so annoyingly at you. God, how you want to strangle her sometimes. It's true. You've had sweet, merciless dreams about committing the murder and using your in-depth CSI skills to cover up all the evidence. It would surely solve the rent problem.

"You've reminded me three times a day since last Thursday, Mrs. Templeton," you smile, your voice as smooth as silk. It's a voice that usually gets you out of anything. Usually. "I get a paycheck today, so no worries. I'll have the money at your door first thing tomorrow morning."

Mrs. Martha Templeton. A seemingly endearing, 60-year-old something white lady with fine grey hair and nothing to do all day but hassle her tenants for money. She has a rich lawyer son, whom she rarely speaks of. Her husband is supposed to be the fix-it man but he's "never around when you need him".

Honestly, if she spent more time investing money to repair shoddy plumbing and light fixtures, you might have found her to be remotely tolerable. As it was, she was like any other landlord you've had to put up with in the past. Pushy, arrogant and cheap.

She reaches up, pinches your cheek solidly and comments, "You're a nice kid, Greggy. You just gotta learn to manage your finances better."

Greggy? What the hell kind of nickname is Greggy?!? God, this woman. . .

"I know, Mrs. Templeton," you mumble through a stretched mouth. If you weren't trying to get on her good side, you would immediately pry her clammy claws from your face. . .and forbid her from ever calling you Greggy again.

"This is the fourth time you've been late in the last six months," she continues to push unnecessarily. She doesn't need to paint you a picture! The message was sent and received and your cheek is rather sore as a result. She finally releases your swollen face and asks boldly, "Don't you crime scene people make a decent living?"

"Okay, Mrs. Templeton. I have to go now," you continue to grin, teeth clenched tightly at this point as you practically run to your car.

The trip to the store and back is highly uneventful. You even make it back to your loft without running into the Landlady From Hell. If she had seen the groceries in your hands, she would've pointed out (not so subtly) that the money used to pay for the food could've been used to pay your rent instead. She'd rather see you starve than be late on a payment! That Mrs. Templeton. Always looking out for you.

You check your watch. The time is little after 3 in the afternoon. You do have the option of going into work early, catching the start of swing shift and getting a head start on closing up a case or two. Then a realization hits you. With all the overtime you've been putting in, you are slowing turning into a Sara Sidle. A manic workaholic. While she is a "natural, science breathing, hard worker" kind of workaholic, you are the exact opposite. You are the "kiss-ass, learn a thing or two here and there, flirt with all the ladies during your overtime" kind of workaholic. Something your boss, Gil Grissom, is never happy about.

You muse aloud, "A little veg time wouldn't hurt me."

You strip to your boxers, open a window and cut on a fan. The heat has been unrelenting the last few days. You pop open a root beer and plop down onto your beanbag chair. The plastic-like covering of the chair sticks to your sweaty body and for a moment, you contemplate moving to a more suitable piece of furniture. Then laziness kicks in and you stay right where you are.

You thumb through your mental address book, trying to find someone to call and cure your loneliness. Someone to hang out with before work. Maybe a lady friend who could really make this day worthwhile.

You can't think of anyone besides the people you already work with. Yeah. You have quite the social life. Ladies just lining up at the door.

You snort to yourself and your social misfortune before dozing into a fitful nap, dreams consisting of a frightful one night stand with the pretentious Mrs. Templeton.

-------------------------------------------

Your flashlight leaves a trail of evidence to follow. From the overturned trash by the dumpster to the cold stiff lying in a puddle of muck, you tread over the asphalt surface carefully. Another light soon joins yours. Then another and another. The four of you stop at the body. For a moment, you all contemplate the age old question: Why? Why would a human being kill another? The moment is over quickly and the lead CSI begins barking out orders.

"Greg, take pictures of the dumpster and process. Sara, you cover the body until David gets here. Nick and I will start asking questions inside."

"As you wish, my lady," you smile winningly, even though you are slightly hurt Catherine would choose Nick over you.

Over the last couple of years, Catherine has been good to you. Taking you along for rides to interrogate potential suspects. Helping process evidence. Teaching you what you need to know. It burns you whenever she goes for the manly Nick Stokes instead of you. As a bit of consolation, she does treat you to one of her gorgeous smiles in return before disappearing through the back entrance of the restaurant with Nick.

You have often dreamed of sweeping Catherine off her feet. Showing Warrick and/or Nick that you can be a desirable man like either of them. She does have the baggage of a kid, but in all honesty, you love Lindsey. You are confident enough your current level of maturity, growth and - dare you say - _je ne sais quoi_ could give Catherine the world and more. She needs someone in her life.

A bright flash snaps you out of your daydreaming. Sara's camera. You glance over to her, seeing her hunched over the body and inspecting it closely. Your dreams of Catherine wash away almost instantly as you log away the memory of Sara's backside for future reference. Just another second. . .

Okay, brain processing over. You head over to the dumpster to start your work.

"I saw that," she teases, her slow drawl containing an ever so playful twang. She continues to process without even looking at you, but that knowing smile is slowly crossing her face. Your obvious crush on her is getting harder and harder to hide these days. Not to mention, your working relationship is beginning to blossom into something you can't quite describe. Your attentions are sure to be noticed by her ever observant eyes.

You feign ignorance, which is standard operating procedure whenever you get caught checking her out. "What are you talking about?"

"You. My ass. Stop checking it out," she explains pointedly, yet jokingly.

You force out an embarrassed chuckle, but respond cheekily, "It's a nice ass."

"Focus, Greg," she warns, this time taking the time to look at you with a stern gaze. Play time is suddenly over and you begin to wonder why Sara is so hot and cold tonight. She was a little snippy with Grissom earlier this shift as well.

You take a few snapshots of the dumpster, then zoom in on more details. You are so caught up in your work, you hadn't noticed David arrive, already giving his assessment on the cause of death. You bag a bloody tissue before tuning your ears in on the conversation between Sara and the medical examiner.

"Ligature marks around his neck would suggest strangulation," David states. An observation either of you could've made without his help. "Liver temp would suggest time of death was a few hours ago. Maybe less."

"Thanks, David," Sara smiles, finally rising from her crouched position on the ground. She checks her camera for battery life and a quick review of the photos she has captured. You take this as your opportunity to report your findings and approach her. She gives you a quick grin before asking, "Any luck with the dumpster?"

The fleeting cold spell has vanished, that smile of hers returning her to the status of "hot". Maybe she recognized how harsh she was earlier and is making up for her odd behavior.

"Lots of trash and rotten food, but I did find a discarded bloody tissue. Could be nothing," you say, shrugging. "The haphazard mess could suggest struggle. The victim or perp accidently busting a bag open while fighting for the upper hand."

"Well, our vic was definitely strangled. If we're lucky, we might find the murder weapon around here," Sara sighs, glancing around the dark alleyway, now decorated with police lights and yellow tape. "If I were you, I would get in the dumpster. Search for anything that could leave half inch marks around someone's neck."

"In the dumpster, huh?" you frown. You can already hear the flies buzzing around inside. "I thought the CSI hazing ritual was over."

Sara winks at you, "All the great CSIs get their starts rummaging through trash, Greggo."

-------------------------------------------

Maybe digging through the trash wasn't so bad. It finally forced you to take a shower. On the other hand, it produced nothing fruitful. No murder weapon. Nothing remotely incriminating or helpful. You are stuck with no leads. Just half eaten dinners foolishly thrown away by upper class patrons. Enough food to feed one of the local homeless shelters down the street. You make a mental note to get together your bi-monthly donation. By that, you mean, actually responding to those urging, bi-monthly postcards you get in the mail asking for contributions.

You step out of the showers wrapped in a towel and make your way to your locker. You yank out all of the essentials. A quick check to make sure you are alone and the boxers go on first. The pants are a quick second and lastly an undershirt to complete the ensemble. Feeling better fully clothed and clean, you throw on a button down shirt and slip into your shoes before rushing back out into the labs. Surely someone had missed you while you were gone.

"Hey, just the guy I wanted to see," you hear as you whiz by DNA. You come to an abrupt halt and turn around. Wendy is smiling and waving at you to come back. You quickly observe how nice her hair is tonight, casually flipped up in a clip. You also take note of her pearly whites flashing like beacons in your direction. She's in a very good mood.

"I must have done something absolutely amazing if you want to see me again so badly," you smile devilishly.

She smirks at you this time, ignoring your attempts at flirting and holding up a report, "You're in luck. That bloody tissue of yours kicked out a name in the database."

"Awesome," you grin widely, walking back into a space that you used to call your domain. Wendy Simms was now ultimate ruler and you were definitely willing to submit to any of her demands. That is, if she ever issued any demands for you to actually submit to.

"Yep. Your girl's name is Tracy Marshall. She has priors, her DNA taken for a murder case that dayshift handled two years ago. She was exonerated," Wendy reports, before handing over the computer printouts to you. You study them for a bit, before thanking her. You even offer her to dinner, but she politely declines. You walk away, not allowing the disappointment in being turned down again get to you. Maybe you could work on Sara again. Join her on lunch break. She doesn't usually mind your presence during that time.

Catherine rounds the corner, spots you and waves at you to meet up with her, "Hey, Greg."

Of course, you could try and work your magic on Catherine first.

"Hey, Cath," you smile when you reach each other.

"How's your stuff coming?" she asks.

"DNA kicked out a name on the bloody tissue. A girl named Tracey Marshall," you announce proudly. You hand her the paperwork to let her see. As she reads, you compliment, "I like what you've done with your hair, by the way. You look great."

Hair seems to be your thing today.

This causes her to look up at you, her face a mixture of puzzlement and intrigue. You also notice she is a touch flattered by your compliment, which you log away as points for you. She laughs lightly, before glancing at you sidelong, "Weren't you just hitting on Wendy?"

Those points you had gained are suddenly lost. Damn those CSIs and their observant eyes!

You pretend to be flabbergasted, clutching your chest for dramatic effect, "Hitting on. . .? Wendy? Cath, I was just trying to give you a compliment!"

"Uh-huh," she smirks, obviously not buying your story. She hands the DNA results back to you, a gentle hand squeezing your arm. "You're a sweet kid, Greg. You just gotta learn to manage that heart of yours better. I don't want you to get the wrong idea about someone and then get hurt."

Her warning sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Templeton's before her and you begin to wonder how many more people will address you as a "sweet kid" before the night is over.

For the record, it would be two more people. Sara and Nick.

-------------------------------------------

Vegas: Home to 24 hour alcohol establishments.

The bar crawling stops at the first bar and it's only 7 in the morning. Not exactly the morning bar crawl you had envisioned, but Nick has managed to run into an old flame. She is now your current waitress and is doing all she can to get back into Nick's good graces. . .or his bed. Nick is merely taking advantage of her, of course, most of your drinks being free as a result. As much as you like free beer, you still have developed this bitter taste in your mouth.

It seems all of these little trips leave you just a tiny bit jealous of the two men sitting before you. Both Nick and Warrick seem to have a plethora of old flames littering the streets of Vegas. You, on the other hand, have trouble coming up with at least one woman who enjoyed your company enough to ask for a second date. Anyway, her name is Cindy and Warrick is quick to tease whenever she leaves your sight.

"Cindy? Sounds like a porn name."

"Cindy is a perfectly normal name, Warrick," Nick defends sternly. You can tell he's not at all amused with Warrick's joke. In your time at the labs, you've found Nick and Warrick's friendship to be an odd one. They don't really have the same kind of humor, the same work ethics or the same people skills, yet they are still great friends. It still amazes you that they have allowed you to join their little club of drunken debauchery. You feel like the kid brother, which is perfect considering you never had brothers of your own.

"Besides, she's been eyeing you too," Nick smiles back, to which Warrick scoffs and finishes off his current drink. Nick insists, "I'm serious. I think when I give her my number, I'll put down yours instead of mine."

Warrick's eyes widen, "You wouldn't. . ."

"Tina would have a baby if she heard Miss Cindy's voice on your answering machine!" Nick laughs hard, while you smile at their banter. Nick turns to you, "What do you think, Greggo?"

You shake your head and hold up your hands in defense, "No comment! I'm not going to say anything about a girl you've had relations with nor will I agree or disagree with the claim that Cindy has been eyeing Warrick. I'd like to live to see the next day, thanks."

Warrick grins wickedly, "C'mon, Greg. I wouldn't hurt you. . .too bad."

Nick nods as well, "Yeah, Greg. I mean, if you said Cindy was hot, I would only. . .give you one black eye."

You feel they might be drunk, but another part of you feels their jokes are gravely serious. So you maintain your ground and say nothing even remotely sexual about the beautiful Cindy. Instead, you just raise your glass and order another. You have a feeling surviving a bar crawl with these two will require a bit of inebriation.

Your theory has proven correct, it would seem. Watching Nick leave with Cindy doesn't hurt nearly as much as it would had you been sober. Knowing Warrick has a woman waiting at home for him also stings much less with your brain clouded with alcohol. You leave your car in the lot and call a cab.

Stumbling into your place, you strip your outer layers on the way to your bed, leaving a trail of clothes behind. You flop down onto the bed and eye your alarm clock.

The time is now 9 a.m.

You shut your eyes hoping the hangover won't be too bad when you wake up.

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

A song starts out softly, the lyrics oddly familiar.

_"And the tears come streaming down your face._

_When you lose something you can't replace."_

You open your eyes. Your hand absentmindedly scratches your rear and your feet reluctantly kick off the sheets. You stare at the clock, your foggy mind finally remembering that you woke up to this very same song the day before at exactly the same time. You laugh at the coincidence and sluggishly slip out of bed.

Oh, this is not a good day to have a hangover. Drinks with the guys was fun, but it doesn't come without its consequences.

It's weird, though. The more you walk, the more you realize that you don't have a headache at all! Your stomach slowly stops swimming and your steps more confident. You scratch your head wondering how you managed to avoid such a massive hangover. Maybe you drank a lot of water the night before or something.

As you step into the bathroom, you hear the radio squawk, _"Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!"_

"Morning, Dan," You yawn, as you shut the bathroom door behind you.

_"That was Coldplay with "Fix You". Up next, more hits, but first we're gonna check in on Bobby with our traffic report. Bobby?"_

_"Thanks Dan! A major accident just outside Scotty's Junction, so if you can, avoid that mess at all costs!"_

You throw the door open, sticking your face out and listening to the radio very closely now. The monologue continues as you say aloud, "Scotty's Junction is backed up again?"

As Dan the Man and Bobby go into their bantering routine, you begin to realize it's the same monologue you had heard yesterday! Gosh, isn't that a bit weird? There must've been a mix-up at the station you reason. You slink back into your bathroom and shut the door.

"Okay, everyone. Have a wonderful November 14th! I'm Dan the Man signing off. Stayed tuned for the next hour of great music!"

You open the door again, this time half naked and clutching your towel. Your gaping lips sputter, "November 14th? That _was_ yesterday!"

This is crazy, you think. The radio station just needed to fill up airspace because Dan the Man called out sick or something. Yeah, that's it! Dan the Man is just sick! There is no way that yesterday is today, again. Er. Whatever.

You forego the shower for a second day in a row, throw on some clothes and bolt out of your room. There is only one way to get to the bottom of this. Check the groceries. You bought food yesterday and once you find it, you'll have proved your radio theory. Simple as that.

You go into the little kitchen, throw open the fridge and groan. Your new gallon of milk is gone. The coffee beans are gone. The fresh loaf of bread: also gone. You go through your small pantry to find all of the snack items have mysteriously vanished as well. Everything you had bought yesterday has disappeared!!

You quickly shut the pantry doors, hanging onto the handles for dear life.

"Okay, hold on Greg," you talk to yourself. "You did get a little drunk after shift with the guys, so maybe you just ate everything in a drunken haze! That's it!"

You run over to your garbage can. The first look isn't too promising. So you dump the contents on the floor, just to double check. You kick it around, turn things over and then fall to your knees in exasperation. There is no evidence that you ate any of those food items within the last day. You pull at your semi-long locks and decide that there is one more thing you have to check.

The newspaper.

The date on today's newspaper will finally prove whether you are going crazy or not. You pull on shoes and run out of your building. You have the misfortune of running into your landlady, Mrs. Templeton. Again.

"Mr. Sanders. Need I remind you that you're late paying the rent?" she prods, her beady eyes squinting ever so annoyingly at you. Again.

This time, the witty remark doesn't come as fast or as suave. You gulp then reply, "Yes. Three times every day since last Thursday. But I paid you this morning?"

"Don't you try and pull that trick on me again, mister!" She reaches up, pinches your cheek solidly and comments, "You're a nice kid, Greggy. You just gotta learn to manage your finances better."

"Okay," you mumble, your lips taut from her pulling at your cheek. You almost forget to be mad about her nettling nickname.

"This is the fourth time you've been late in the last six months," she continues to push unnecessarily. Just like the day before. She is going through this conversation like it has never happened! She finally releases your face from her killer grip, but before she can ask about your paycheck, you step in.

"Crime scene investigators make a nice paycheck, Mrs. Templeton," you say shakily to which she stares at you wide eyed. She sputters, not sure how to respond. How could you possibly know what she was going to say before she had said it?

You know because you have lived this all before.

To be continued. . .


	2. High Roller

Disclaimer: See first chapter.

Author's Notes: See first chapter.

**Rewound**

by e-dog

**Chapter Two**

**High Roller**

Today is November 14th . The newspaper told you so.

The hundreds and hundreds of newspapers you scoured through at the supermarket until the managers threw you out, told you so. Today is November 14th.

Again.

You stand by the dumpster with the overturned trash and spot the bloody tissue almost immediately. A bloody tissue with Tracy Marshall's DNA all over it. It's in plain sight, just like it was before. Of course the first time you did thisyou weren't outright looking for it.

Now you know. You know everything about today. You know that three more flashlights are going to appear next to yours in five, four, three. . .two. . .one.

Here they are. They all shine light on the cold stiff lying in the same puddle of muck. You glance at the rest of your team: Sara, Nick and Catherine. Their expressions are solemn, introspective. That's how you looked yesterday when this was all new. Now you're just bewildered. Don't they feel it too? They must know this all happened before!

Jokingly, you try to jog their memories. "Feels like déjá vu, right?"

Nick smirks. "Yeah, I guess after a while, each crime scene looks like the one before it."

You frown. "That's not what I meant."

Nick turns his head to stare at you curiously. "Then what did you mean?"

He's serious. Nick has no idea what you're referring to. You could try and explain how this day is repeating itself, but somehow that doesn't feel like a good course of action. Instead you mumble, "Never mind."

Catherine finally breaks her silence, "Greg, take pictures of the dumpster and process. Sara, you cover the body until David gets here. Nick and I will start asking questions inside."

You flash back to today when you had enthusiastically replied with, "As you wish, my lady!"

This time around, you can only manage a meek nod of your head, as you watch both Catherine and Nick walk into the restaurant through the back entrance. Catherine doesn't smile at you this time, leaving you confused and hurt. She's usually more cordial toward you. In fact, she was much more cordial the first time you did this, so what was different now?

Thinking hard, you pinpoint the reason why. She blissfully ignored your presence because you didn't bother to flirt or joke or anything. Why would Catherine even give you a second glance if you give her nothing to respond to? She's a woman who likes attention. She likes to be flattered.

The flash of a camera jostles you out of your musing. Sara's camera. She's hunched over the body of the poor man who was strangled. You spy her ass, linger for a moment, then turn away quickly. Did you already forget what happened yesterday? Er, today?

"I saw that," she teases. You almost roll your eyes. Caught again.

You try to play it off, hopefully better this time, "You saw what?"

"You. My ass. Stop checking it out," she says again. Her tone is still joking.

You almost say "It's a nice ass" all over again. Somehow, you stop yourself. Again, you forgot how she didn't respond so well to that comment before. Instead, you put your tail between your legs and go back to the dumpster. You make sure to snap detailed photos again. Just because you already know nothing is here, doesn't mean you shouldn't do your job. You bag the bloody tissue.

Turning around, you see that David isn't here yet, which means you've finished your processing much more quickly than the last time. You congratulate yourself on the speedy processing, then walk over to Sara, who is still crouched low to the ground and examining the vic.

"Ligature marks," you observe aloud.

"Yeah," Sara agrees. "Rope, maybe?"

"Could be," you nod your head. She's not looking at you as she talks. You know that Sara likes to be focused on her work, but even you can see that this body is not providing a lot of immediate information. Besides, Sara is usually very good about making eye contact with you when you both talk. In a way, she's been your primary mentor. So, you bend down next to her and ask worriedly, "Are you okay?"

She pauses, still not looking at you. You ask again, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she says quickly, chancing a glance at you briefly, but that's all you need. Before she reverts her eyes back to the victim, you see a flicker of distress. A cry for help. She wants help, but is too proud to ask. Well, this explains her hot and cold attitude toward you. Something is wrong.

"Are you sure?" you push gently. "I can be a good listener, most of the time. I know I get distracted by shiny objects, but. . ."

"I'm fine, Greg," she says blandly.

"Sara, c'mon," you say a bit harder this time.

"I'm fine, Greg!" she snaps at you, before shutting her eyes in regret. "I. . .I didn't mean to yell at you."

"No, no, don't worry," you tell her. "Everybody has rough nights. I always have them."

"No you don't, Greg." Her response is immediate. She is really looking at you and you see concern in her eyes. Here you were, trying to make sure she was alright and suddenly the tables have turned. "You're a good CSI."

Sara has always been quick to remind you that you are competent. You want to say something meaningful in return. Unfortunately, duty calls and breaks up the moment you're having with her.

"Hi guys," David says, walking up with his kit. "Sorry I'm late."

"Hey," you both say and watch him kneel down next to you. He's out of breath and you start to wonder, why is it that David is always late arriving to a crime scene? You can't remember the last time he actually said hello without apologizing for his lateness!

"Ligature marks around his neck would suggest strangulation," David states after a few moments. An observation you both have already made without him. You think you catch annoyance flash across Sara's features too, something you missed the first time around while you were still snapping photos of the dumpster. Something is really bothering her! You want to know what it is that's got her so emotionally unstable tonight, but it'll have to wait until later.

David sticks a thermometer below the abdomen of the body and tells you, "Liver temp would suggest time of death was a few hours ago. Maybe less."

"Thanks, David," Sara smiles (which you can now see is forced) and she finally rises from her crouched position on the ground. She checks her camera for battery life and a quick review of the photos she has captured. She turns around to face you and goes to give you her next order. You cut her off because you already know what she wants to know.

"The dumpster is kind of a bust. A bloody tissue was all I found," you say curtly. You don't mean for your tone to be so brusk, but you can't help it. You've done this before.

She steps back and half smiles, "How did you know I was going to ask you that?"

"Clairvoyant?" you joke. It's funny that you even think joking about this is a good idea. Sure, you had always imagined you had inherited some sort of clairvoyance from your grandmother, but this wasn't exactly what you had in mind! You're still a bit freaked out that this is happening at all.

"Right, clairvoyant," she laughs a little, before gesturing toward the dumpster. "If I were you, I would get in the dumpster. Look for. . ."

"Anything that might make ligature marks about half an inch wide?" you finish. You have to say, seeing her shocked expression at completing her thoughts for a second time is just as rewarding as the first time! You walk past her and pat her shoulder, "I'll get right on that, Sara."

As you prepare to climb back into the past day's worth of uneaten food, she calls after you, "Maybe you are clairvoyant!"

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

A song starts out softly, the lyrics still the same.

_"And the tears come streaming down your face._

_When you lose something you can't replace."_

You groan into your pillow. Not again. _Please_, not again.

The song finishes and right on cue, your favorite host greets the world, _"Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!"_

"Morning, Dan," you mumble. You get up out of bed, look around the room and just sigh. As you head into the bathroom, you hear for the fourth time in four days that Scotty's Junction is a mess that you would be smart to avoid.

-------------------------------------------

"I'll take the dumpster," you smile at her.

Catherine's mouth hangs open for a moment, before she half-smiles, "Okaaay, go for it. Nick why don't you. . ."

"Go inside with Cat and question the owner of the restaurant," you finish for her, stalking over to the dumpster like you own it. Well, it's true. You _do_ own it.

"Right," Catherine says warily in your direction, before returning her focus to Sara. "Sara, can you take care of the body?"

"Sure thing," Sara says, also giving you a funny look. You just smile goofily at her.

You nonchalantly push the shutter on the camera to snap photos, but you don't know what exactly your snapping photos of. You find that you really don't care anymore. Your constant flashing prompts Sara to look up and point out, "Um, Greg? You're not looking."

"I know," you say, winking at her. You snap the shutter again. You might have taken a photo of your shoes this time.

She smiles, but not because she's amused. It's a nervous smile. She's worried about you. She rises to her feet, something she hasn't done the first three times she's inspected the body. Usually, she's in that crouched position until all the processing is done. Interesting. Acting irrationally will also cause others to act irrationally. Changing your behavior will jumble up the events a little bit thereby making this mundane existence a little less mundane.

Sara ignores her job and focuses on you, "Greg, I don't think Grissom would appreciate you slacking at the scene."

"Hey, trust me, it doesn't matter what I take pictures of," you say, shrugging. "We'll just go back to the lab, put my camera aside and won't waste a minute on them. Why won't we look at them, you ask?"

Without looking, you bend over and pick up a bloody tissue. "Because _this_ is all we need."

Sara's mouth hangs open, then shuts. You've left her speechless. Fascinating. You point at the dumpster and continue, "In fact, I should just go dumpster diving right now. Try and find the murder weapon that I know _won't_ be there." You point at the victim, "He was strangled, right? With something about half an inch wide?"

Sara turns her head back to the victim, then back to you with a look of amazement, "How did you know? You haven't even looked at the body!"

You put the bloody tissue in an evidence bag, "What can I say, Sara? I have a gift." You hand her the evidence and chuckle.

Sara's look of bafflement is priceless.

-------------------------------------------

"You wanted to see me?" you ask, leaning in the threshold. Wendy looks up at you, confused.

"Uh, no?" she says, then a machine beeps behind her. You see your results are printing, then look at her again as if to say 'told you so!'. She shakes her head, reaches for the printout and says surprised, "Uh, I guess I do need to see you."

"Tracy Marshall?" you ask, since you already know the answer.

"Uh, yeah, how did you know?" Wendy looks at you, amazement taking over her features now. You have to admit, 'wowing' people with your clairvoyance is starting to wear off. Their looks of amazement just aren't that amazing anymore.

To you, knowing _what_ will happen _when_ it will happen just isn't that exciting, but to everyone else, it's like losing their virginity all over again! It's pure and new. It's fascinating that you could know so much about their future thoughts or actions without breaking a sweat.

To you, knowing the future has lost its appeal. Why didn't the fates allow you to repeat an entire week? What about an entire year?!? Imagine what you could do knowing events an entire year in advance! You could save the entire world from atomic destruction, if necessary!

As it is, however, you only know today. How utterly tragic.

Wendy stands up, furrowing her brow at you, "Greg? How did you know it was Tracy Marshall?"

You've gotten lost in your musings, worrying Wendy. Despite how boring this has become, you still want to look like a clairvoyant genius, not a crazy nutcase. So you snap to and answer, your voice dripping with sarcasm, "Lucky guess."

She walks around the desk toward you and places a hand on your forearm. You look up and see . . . compassion in her eyes. How can this be? How could she feel sorry for you? Maybe. . .just maybe she knows! She's been experiencing the time loop too! Before you can jump on this notion, she says, "Greg, you don't seem like yourself today. Are you okay?"

Your face falls. No, she's just concerned because you've lost your "Greg-ness". Still, the concern is most welcome and her touch is driving you positively crazy. Oddly enough, you don't find this moment ideal for some opportunistic flirting, so you just force a smile, "I'm okay, Wendy."

She smiles back, her voice melting your heart, "Promise?"

"I promise. I'm fine," you say, not because it's the truth but because you know it'll keep that smile on her face. You gently pull back, check the time and tell her, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to run into Catherine."

You leave Wendy quickly to keep her from asking more questions, but you're quite sad you have to go. As many times as you have been on this merry-go-round, this is the first time you've elicited some sort of sympathy out of someone. Maybe when you do this all again, you'll find some way to get her to join you for a drink.

Catherine rounds the corner and waves at you to meet up with her. Obediently, you do. She greets you, "Hey, Greg."

"Hello, Catherine."

She pauses at your use of her full name. You can usually get away with calling her 'Cat' or 'Cath', but today, why not switch things up a bit? You do notice, however, that saying 'Catherine' over 'Cat' has brought about a much different reaction than you had expected. She seems. . .touched by your maturity, perhaps. Her momentary reverie finally dissipates and she gets right down to business, "How's your stuff coming?"

"DNA kicked out a name. Tracy Marshall," you tell her, fighting back a yawn. Then you add half-heartedly, "Oh, by the way. The hair. Looks good on you."

"Uh, thanks," she says, then turns to leave. Her expression is still somewhat befuddled as she orders, "Keep me up to date, will ya?"

"You betcha!" you smile widely, giving her two thumbs up. Through your clenched teeth, you mumble, "Of course, by the end of shift, nothing new will come in and we will play this game all over again tomorrow!"

You turn on your heels, walk in the opposite direction and can't help but say bitterly, "But yes, Catherine! I will keep you up-to-date!"

-------------------------------------------

Nick and Warrick are drunk. Again.

This time, you opt not to drink as much. Alcohol is fun, oh, the first three times. Now, you can't really stand to look at this stuff. Besides, you now know that getting drunk and passing out will not erase whatever the hell is happening to you.

It's now 8 in the morning. You will probably leave this joint in about thirty or forty minutes. Nick will flirt with your waitress, Cindy, and Warrick will encourage it. You will call a cab, go home and lay down to sleep at about 9 a.m.. You will wake up at 1 p.m. on the dot and hear that same, damn rock song all over again. Dan the Man will say hello. You will say hello back. You will take a shower, get dressed, go outside and avoid Mrs. Templeton and her demands for your rent payment.

You will go to work. You will work the dumpster. You will find the tissue and know the owner of the DNA. You will spin your wheels on the evidence you have because by the time you leave, nothing new will come in. You will end up back at this bar, watch Nick and Warrick get drunk and start the cycle all over again.

To be frank, you are a god. Being god sucks.

"What is up with you, man?" Nick chokes on his drink, slapping you on the back. "You're not drinking!"

"Not in the mood," you shrug.

"C'mon, what's the trouble?" Warrick asks, now also concerned with your lack of desire to get wasted.

"You want me to be honest?" you ask.

"Yeah," they both say.

"This is the seventh time I've done this," you say simply. They laugh, which is the reaction you expected. For some inane reason, you try to get them to believe you. You desperately need someone to believe you!

"No, guys. I'm serious. This is the seventh time I have lived this day. The seventh time I've heard Nick tell me that joke about the rabbi and the priest. The seventh time I've ordered this martini. The seventh damn time that I've come to this bar with the two of you and tried to forget that it all ever happened!" You lean forward and they lean toward you, "I've been repeating the last 24 hours like a loop on a record player. I can't seem to get it to stop."

The two drunken men try to remain serious, but bust a gut laughing anyway. You slam a napkin down on the table and stand up to leave, "I'm going home."

"No, no, wh-wh-wait a minute!" Nick says in between his giggle fits. "Sit down, Greggo. Sit down."

"Yeah, yeah, sit, we didn't mean to laugh at you," Warrick adds, also still trying to keep his chuckles under control. He then whispers to Nick,"We didn't mean to laugh that hard!"

Nick snickers some more.

You reluctantly fall back into your chair and wait on them to finish. Once they seem to be under control, Nick drains the last of his drink and scoots closer to you. In fact, you think he's scooted almost _too_ close to you. Weird. You shift uncomfortably, as he speaks to you, "Look, man. If. . .If I were able to do this day all over again...and again...and again. . .and again. . ."

"Now look who's on a loop!" Warrick jokes, pointing at Nick.

"Shut-up, Rick!" Nick yells, then turns back to you. "If I could repeat today all over again, I'd bet on a game."

"No you wouldn't," Warrick chides.

"Yes, I would," Nick defends himself, his arm bumping yours as he animatedly defends himself. "You know why? Because I will know who's gonna win!"

You stare at Nick, not because he looks like a complete drunk, but because he makes a very valid point. Knowing what will happen at the lab is only half the reward! You can learn about everything else that has happened in the last 24 hours and use that to your advantage as well! You can bet on games. Spend all your money and never go broke. Sure, you can "predict the future" and wow everyone with your skills, but now you could charge fees to "read their palms"!

Why make this whole existence miserable when you can have some fun? You smile mischievously at him and say, "Nick, I love you man!"

Nick just smiles at you and says back, "No, man. I _love_ you! I love you!"

Warrick rolls his eyes, "There he goes again. . ."

Again? Nick's arm has found a resting place on your shoulders, hugging you close to him while he laughs. You awkwardly settle into his embrace and can't help but wonder what exactly Nick means by 'I love you'. You can't help but wonder why your body feels warm at the thought.

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

A song starts out softly, the lyrics still the same. Good. You want them to be the same. Today, you're going to get this day right.

_"And the tears come streaming down your face._

_When you lose something you can't replace."_

You smile into your pillow. Today is a brand new day, so to speak. Today, you will be the new and improved Greg Sanders. That new Greg Sanders will require a suit. A nice Armani suit.

-------------------------------------------

Fitting for the suit took longer than expected, but a call to Grissom to clear things up wasn't as painful as you had imagined. Besides, the next time you do this, you won't have any trouble since you now know your exact measurements. Fitting won't take as long tomorrow.

Anyway, Grissom was upset you were late, but he had too much on his mind to yell at you. He simply ordered you to the crime scene at once to help out Nick, Catherine and Sara. Judging by your watch, you are only a minute or two late. You know that Catherine hasn't handed out her orders yet. You pull up to the crime scene, deciding that next time you'll rent a limo and pull up to work in style.

Not to say that this new suit isn't stylish enough. It was tough at first, handing over your credit card to the cashier, but you kept reminding yourself that tomorrow, all that money would be back in your account. It would be like you never bought the suit in the first place!

You grab your kit and begin your trek up to your team. Your new shoes are gleaming in the police lights and the gold cufflinks sparkle. You had decided to slick back your hair too. Now you truly are an old school, Las Vegas mobster! If only Lois O'Neill could see you now!

You duck under the tape just as Catherine is about to open her mouth and give out instructions.

"Shall I take the dumpster?" you ask, your smile as bright and as suave as you can make it.

"Nice of you to join us, Greg," Catherine begins to scold, but once she has completely turned around to face you, she loses all coherent thought. In fact, all of them are gaping at you with astonishment. You grin wider. This is better than you had imagined!

Nick finds his voice first, the two woman positively taken aback. "Greg? Is that _you_?"

"Of course it's me!" you say, shaking your head at Nick. You even tease him, "Is your eyesight going in your old age, Nick? Or maybe you're just marveling at how devilishly handsome I am?"

Nick glares at you, while Sara snaps out of her gaping and stifles a laugh at your joke.

Catherine finally chuckles as well, a small smile on her lips, "Greg? Why in the world are you in a suit?"

You correct her playfully, "An Armani suit."

She laughs, "Okay. Why in the world are you in an Armani suit?"

Sara adds thoughtfully, "And why show up to work in it?"

Honestly, you wanted the suit to avoid dumpster duty, but you won't tell them that. Instead you lie, "I had a hot date and didn't have time to change."

Nick laughs, clearly skeptical, "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious," you retort, then flash a pleading look toward Catherine. "I know I said I would take up the dumpster, but I really don't wanna mess up my suit."

For the first time in seven tries, Catherine changes her orders around to your liking. "Okay, Sara will take the body and Nick will take the dumpster. Greg, you're with me."

Nick's eyes go wide. "Cath, wait a minute."

Catherine looks at Nick, wondering what in the world he's going to say. Is he going to complain about being stuck with dumpster diving? He wouldn't look very professional if he did and he realizes this. Instead, he gives up and says, "I'm on it, Cath."

"Good," she says.

You shrug and smile at Nick, only to make him scowl at you. Nick never really thought you were ready for the field, so it doesn't surprise you that he's a tad ticked off. This wouldn't be the first time Catherine choose you over Nick or Sara either. Nick and Catherine are close and you might be lying if you said putting a little distance between them didn't make you all giddy inside. You really want to impress Catherine today.

"Ready Greg?" Catherine asks.

You glide past a brooding Nick Stokes on feather light feet until you're by Catherine's side. Sara just shakes her head, amused by your latest stunt, but quick to tend to her duties by the body. Nick stares at you for a second more, conflicting emotions written all over his face. Finally he takes his camera over to the dumpster to begin his work. You want to remind him of the bloody tissue, but you know Nick was a CSI long before you were. He'll find it.

Before you enter the restaurant, your eyes find Catherine's. You hold her thoughtful gaze for a few seconds before she half-smiles at you, "Something is different about you."

"Must be the suit," you say.

"No, I don't think so," she says, her eyes softening just a bit before she instructs, "Let's go."

You hold the door open for her and say wistfully, "As you wish, my lady."

To be continued. . .


	3. If At First You Don't Succeed

Disclaimer: See first chapter.

Author's Notes: See first chapter.

**Rewound**

by e-dog

**Chapter Three**

**If At First You Don't Succeed. . .**

You follow Catherine down the semi-dark corridor until you reach the doors to the kitchen. You push through those doors flooded with bright white light and suddenly, you're all investigator again. Sure, you got what you wanted this time around, presenting yourself as the high roller with the slick hair and suit. You beat out Nick Stokes and got to be with Catherine, but questioning the restaurant manager is all brand new. You feel obligated to pay close attention. Plus, you've got the previous knowledge of evidence that has yet to be collected stored in your memory banks. Maybe you'll learn something or inquire about something Catherine and Nick wouldn't have known to ask about.

"May I help you?" a moderately deep voice calls out to you.

"I'm Catherine Willows and this is Greg Sanders, CSI," Catherine introduces you. "Are you the manager?"

"Yes, I'm Victor Gilman, the manager of this fine establishment," he confirms, then his voice grows sad and dissolute. "It's a shame, to have to reduce myself and my fine staff to such a level of mediocrity! You have to understand, murders usually take place behind strip clubs and ratty bars. Not in the alleyway of a five star restaurant!"

Catherine frowns and comments, "I'll have you know, not all strip clubs are breeding grounds for murderers, Mr. Gilman."

She's clearly offended. You feel the need to cool Catherine's jets and decide to take control, "Did you know the victim at all, Mr. Gilman? He had no I.D. on him."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know him, I'm sorry," he shakes his head, tapping a finger against his cheek. He's wearing gold on nearly all of his fingers. You notice his facial hair is trimmed very neatly and his eyes are a dark shade of brown. His lips are taut with frustration, but even that doesn't seem to demean his perfect complexion. "Is there any way to get you out of here any faster? My customers are getting antsy."

"Well, right now, your backyard is a crime scene," Catherine says, not a bit of remorse in her voice.

"Until this case is closed, you're going to have to deal."

You think of Tracy Marshall's DNA and the bloody tissue it was found on. It wouldn't hurt to ask. You look around nonchalantly and say, "You have a lot of women working under you, Mr. Gilman?"

Catherine gives you an odd look, not sure why that's relevant right now. You give her a reassuring nod, telling her it's okay. You've got this.

Mr. Gilman straightens up, assuming he's being accused of discriminating against female employees. "Of course I do! Some of my best chefs are women!"

"You think we could get a list of your employees?" you ask next. You don't know, but you hope that Tracy's name is on this list and that'll be your link between the events outside and this restaurant. Before Mr. Gilman can object, you warn, "We could just get a court order. Bring more nasty cops and yellow tape around and scare away your fine customers."

"I'll get you the list," Gilman says quickly. He disappears through another set of kitchen doors.

Once he's gone, Catherine looks at you, "I'm impressed with how you handled that, but why ask for the employee's list? Brass told us the vic has no I.D. He doesn't work here and the only connection between our d.b. and the restaurant is location. He could've been dumped here for all we know."

"I know that," you say, then blurt out, "But last time, you and Nick didn't even bother to ask for the list, so I thought that maybe this time. . ."

Catherine raises an eyebrow at you and you realize you're mistake. Only _you_ are repeating this day. Catherine is not. You gasp for air like a fish out of water, trying to think of something to say to cover your slip-up. Gilman comes back and saves you.

"Here you go," he says snootily. "Is that all?"

"For now, Mr. Gilman," Catherine says, momentarily forgetting your last conversation. "We'll be in touch and we'll try to be as expeditious as possible." You know she only says this as a courtesy, not because she means it.

"Thank you," Gilman sighs deeply, waving you away like you're yesterday's bad meatloaf.

As you walk out, you can feel her stare on your back. You hold open the door for her, then gently grasp her forearm to stop her. She looks at you and you say, "Trust me on the women employee thing. I have a hunch."

Her look is skeptical, but trusting. You let her go and you reenter the alley. Sara is checking her camera for battery life and Nick is in the dumpster. You try to fight your gleeful grin. Nick Stokes doing your original job is a sight for sore eyes! You notice the mess he has made, trash everywhere. You also notice he hasn't bagged any evidence. Where's the bloody tissue??

To say you've started to panic is an understatement. You _need_ that bloody tissue!

"You get anything?" Catherine asks him.

"No," he scoffs frustrated. "There had been evidence of a struggle, which I documented. Sara told me the vic was probably strangled, so I decided to hop in here and look for a murder weapon. It's all just leftover food, Cath."

"Wait!" you say, but then clamp your mouth shut. Sara, Catherine and Nick look at you expectantly. You run your fingers over you lips nervously then suggest, "Why don't I give you a second pair of eyes? It is dark out here."

"I think I've been doing this long enough to know what is evidence and what's not, Greg," Nick says defensively.

You sigh deeply, then spy the object of your desire. The bloody tissue. As much as you like being able one up Nick, you'd hate to do it now. You actually feel bad, but you can't let this evidence slip by. You walk over to it, pull out a glove from your pocket and slip it on. You pick up the crucial evidence and say, "Well, what about this?"

Catherine walks up to you and says, "Well, I'd say that's blood. It could be just someone's nose bleed, but right now, that's our most concrete lead."

You smile at her, then turn to Nick. He's standing in the trash, a blank expression on his face. You can tell he's trying to decide between being mad at you or feeling inferior. Maybe after shift, you'll skip out on having drinks with Warrick and Nick. It's one thing to hang out with a jubilant, drunk Nick. A drunk, bitter Nick you'd like to avoid.

-------------------------------------------

If there's one thing you're happy about, it's the fact that you don't have to shower after rummaging through trash and already been chewed food. Nick gets to do that.

You get to stride around the halls of the lab in your new Armani suit and go over the evidence looking super fly and super desirable. You swear you saw Mandy give you a second look as you strode past her in the fingerprint lab. Even Hodges paused, which you can admit made you highly uncomfortable, but the simple fact remains: you're turning heads. Even Sara has given you a compliment. So far, the hardest cookie to crack has been Catherine.

"Greg?"

It's Grissom. You turn around and greet him boldly, "Hey, Grizzle."

He squints at you through his glasses and repeats curiously, "Grizzle?"

"Fo shizzle," you wink, but as usual, he's not amused by your humor. You take it down a notch and get down to business, "You need me for something, Gris?"

"I just wanted to. . .um, the DNA results might match someone on the employee list," he stammers, clearly preoccupied. He's staring at your suit.

"I know, that's why I asked for the list," you answer, then shut your eyes in annoyance. You did it again. _Get your facts and time lines straight, Greg! _you scold yourself.

"You asked for an employee list to compare with DNA you didn't have yet?" Grissom questions, then finally gestures toward your suit. "Why are you in a suit?"

Good. A diversion. You completely ignore his first question and focus on the suit. "Hot date. No time to change."

"You have time now. Go change," he says, turning to walk away. He adds before he turns the corner, "And don't forget to compare the results."

"Okay," you answer, then smooth your hair nervously. You have got to be more careful. This is the second time today you've dropped information that you weren't ready to drop yet. You're getting too confident, too cocky. If you're going to solve this case, you can't get ahead of yourself, even if you know half of the case already. You tug on your sleeves to straighten them out and opt to ignore the order to change.

You spent too much money on this suit to just throw it in your locker.

-------------------------------------------

You went looking for Sara, but remembered she was with Doc Robbins, going over the cause of death. You already know that conversation will yield nothing new. Strangulation is how the guy died, plain and simple. What Doc Robbins won't be able to tell you is _who_ did the strangling.

Maybe these employee records will tell you.

You're alone in the breakroom, scanning the names. This restaurant has many employees from chefs to busboys to entertainment. There's day shift and middle shift and night shift. Some names pop up twice because the records aren't updated frequently enough or these individuals have signed up for double shifts on purpose. Still no sign of Tracy Marshall. You sincerely hope this lead won't be a bust.

Catherine joins you in the breakroom, heading straight for coffee. She adjusts her reading glasses before addressing you, "I don't understand why you're doing this now. We don't even know the DNA on that tissue yet. There's nothing to match these names up to."

"Remember that hunch? The one about women employees?" you say, your eyes still scanning.

"Yeah, so?" she says, stirring sugar into her drink.

"Just trust me," you look up and flash her a bright smile. She smiles back and the fluorescent lights seem to catch the shine of her hair just right. You compliment with genuine intentions, "By the way, I like what you've done with your hair. You look great."

Her smile widens, before she scolds lightly, "Don't try and distract me with cute smiles and well deserved compliments, Mr. Sanders."

"Well, you're right about one thing. They are well deserved," you say, your voice growing soft and deepening in tone. Your heart is beating rather fast too. This is about as far as your flirting with Catherine has ever gone. You think she realizes this too because a slight blush warms her cheeks and she pulls back by saying nothing at all. She sits at the table, sipping her coffee and avoiding your gaze.

You're somewhat disappointed the flirting is over, but one more glance at the list makes you stand up and blurt out, "Tracy Marshall!"

"Yeah, how did you know?" Wendy says in the doorway. Catherine looks up at you first, then turns around to Wendy. The DNA tech steps in and whistles, "Wow, Greg. Sometimes you scare me. The DNA just came back. The blood belongs to a Tracy Marshall. Do you know her?"

Catherine is speechless, turning her head to look at you again. She wants to know the answer to that question as well. Well, do you know Tracy Marshall? Not really. You know her DNA strand patterns, but that's about it. So, you shake your head and say, "Uh, no. I just. . .uh, I had a vision! You know, psychic stuff."

"Uh huh," Catherine says, now her expression one of bemusement. "So this refers to that hunch?"

"It was an accurate hunch," you argue, grinning widely. You hold up the list, "And Tracy works at the restaurant. I know it doesn't definitively place her with the victim, but it's enough to question her, right? It distinctly places her at the scene of a crime!"

You're excited. Maybe too excited. Sure, the tissue places Tracy there. Maybe. That blood could've come about in a kitchen accident. Tracy subsequently wiped it up and threw the tissue out. However, you have to question that little scenario. You found the tissue on top of the trash, not inside of it. Like she tossed it in the dumpster after all the bagged trash was dumped. She tossed it after she strangled your victim and had to clean up her own battle wounds.

"It'll be a stretch, but I think Brass can get her in for questioning," Catherine says, eyeing you warily.

Wendy is also giving you an odd smile as she inquires curiously, "So, seriously. How did you know to look for Tracy?"

"Lucky guess," you smile, then add. "I did tell Grissom about my grandma. Did I ever tell you about her psychic abilities?"

"Okay, I've heard enough," Catherine laughs, prompting Wendy to also chuckle and make her exit.

You plop back down into your chair, clearly proud of yourself. You lean back in the chair, a smug grin crossing your face. If you can swing it the right way, you could solve this case all by yourself! You could be the lab hero! The headlines are rolling through your head already: CSI Level 1 Greg Sanders found all the evidence in a murder investigation and caught the killer without the aid of his fellow teammates. Read more and find out how completely and utterly single Greg is!

"Okay, hotshot," Catherine laughs. "That suit has made you lucky, that's all."

You grin, "Luck has nothing to do with it, trust me."

"Well, luck, clairvoyance, whatever," she shakes her head in amusement. "Just don't get too ahead of the evidence. You've been around long enough to know that not everything is what it seems."

"Point taken," you concede, knowing she's right. You sit up straight in your chair again, letting the cocky attitude wash away for now. Your eyes catch her hands delicately grasping her mug. She has a report on the table next to her and she's intently reading it. Seeing she is distracted, you unabashedly take this opportunity to gawk at those beautiful hands. This suit wasn't as lucky as you had hoped it would be. Sure, she's noticed you, but not in the way you had hoped. She's just chalked up your outlandish need to buy an expensive suit as just "being Greg". You want to tell her you bought the suit to impress her. You want to tell her that she's. . .

". . .beautiful."

"What?"

"Hmm?" you snap your head up and look Catherine in the face. Her lips are curving into a quirky smile, her eyes squinting at you. That's when you realize you've said your thoughts aloud. Damn it, that's not how you imagined sweeping her off her feet.

"You just said, you're beautiful," she informs you without a bit of hesitation in her voice. She's either stunned by your omission or knows no other way to rationally react to such a confession.

So you visibly wince and try to play it cute, "I said that out loud, huh?"

You swear you see her cheeks turn a bit pink, but only briefly. She nods shyly, "Yeah, you did."

"Look. Catherine . . .," you say, but she shakes her head at you to stop.

"You're a sweet kid, Greg," she begins, her hand softly caressing your forearm. She had always been a tactile person, talking with light touches against your shoulder or arm. Maybe she is just trying to soften the blow by making contact with you. "I'm flattered, really, Greg. I am flattered, but I just couldn't."

"Why?" you ask, desperate to know. You can always try this again tomorrow. "Why couldn't you? What's stopping you?"

"Well, I'm your supervisor, one," she says, as if that is the most obvious answer. It's also an answer that doesn't negate the possibility of an office romance with her. She's just hiding behind her rank in the workplace hierarchy. She gives her second reason, "Two, I don't think I'm ready for any kind of relationship right now, despite us working together. I don't want to hurt you unintentionally."

You look down and mumble, "I'm hurting now."

She lifts your chin up to look at her again and smiles sadly. She wants to say something, but what that is, you'll never know. Instead, she holds your face in her soft hand for a very long second, before pulling back and getting up from the table. She grabs her report and coffee and heads for the door. Before she steps out, she looks at you and asks, "You okay?"

You force a smile, "Yeah, I'm fine."

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

The same song starts out softly, the lyrics resonating in your skull.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

You say good morning to Dan the Man, get dressed and race out the door in record time. You buy your suit, the trip much faster because you know your exact size. You arrive at the scene, trick Catherine into letting you join her. Nick ends up in the trash. Sara is still stuck with the body.

You get the employee list and find the tissue. Nick is pissed at you again.

Back at the lab, you match Tracy's DNA and her name on the list. You're the hotshot again. However, talking with Catherine afterwards, you change tactics. You begin asking Catherine innocuous questions. You learn she's never been to New York. She's a sucker for those mystery chocolates in those Valentine boxes. Lindsey is still acting out, but she's now chalked that up to typical teenager behavior. You've learned more about her in those ten minutes of talking than you have in the last seven years. At the end of it all, she chuckles, "Why so curious, Greg?"

You shrug, "We just never get to talk, Cath. We should talk more often."

"Yeah," she nods. "We should talk more often."

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

The same song starts out softly, the lyrics resonating in your skull.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

You go through the same motions. You buy the suit again. You also take your credit card to other stores, buying other things you feel will help you today.

You go through the same motions. You get the employee list and the bloody tissue. You match Tracy's name. By the time you get through all this again, the shift is nearly over and you have to cancel your bar crawling plans with Warrick and Nick yet again. You've got other ideas on how to spend your time.

You knock on the doorframe of Catherine's open office door. She says enter and you do. You skip in, your hands behind your back and you say happily, "Close your eyes, Cath. I've got a surprise for you."

"Uh oh," she says, an eyebrow quirked in suspicion.

"It's nothing bad, I promise," you say, still grinning like an idiot. You hope this works. She's still just staring at you and you insist, "Close your eyes! Play along, please?"

Finally, she does and you set your gifts on the desk in front of her. After you have it all set as perfectly as possible, you stand back and inspect your handiwork. Then you instruct, "Okay. Open them."

She does and gasps. Before her you have set a box of chocolates and a snow globe of New York City. You slowly take a seat and watch her reaction. First, she's puzzled, then her expression softens and she picks up the snow globe, careful to keep her fingers from smudging the glass too much. She looks at you and smiles broadly, before turning it over to let the snow fall. Then she flips it back and watches the snow globe come to life. The replica of New York City is enduring a tame snow storm, the buildings catching hold of the flakes on their rooftops.

You both watch with great intrigue. She says quietly, "Greg, I don't know what to say."

"Just say you like it," you reply simply.

"I love it," she smiles, before watching the snow flutter about again. Her hand also lingers on the box of chocolates, tempted to crack that open and try her luck on the mystery candy. "How did you know I liked these?"

You chuckle, "Lucky suit, remember? Lucky guess."

She laughs, "Okay, chocolates are easy. Any woman would love this, but the snow globe. That's a thoughtful gift. Who have you been talking to?"

"Nobody," you insist. _Except you . . ._

She flips the globe once more, the snow storm starting all over again. "There's only one person in this lab who knows I haven't been to New York and that's Grissom."

You fold your hands and reply, "I saw it and thought of you. That's all, Catherine. I thought of you."

There's a comfortable silence between you two, before she says softly, "Thank you, Greg."

"You're welcome," you say, then ask nonchalantly, "What are you doing after shift?"

She leans back and sighs, "Oh, going home. Getting Lindsey ready for school." On that note, she stands and announces, "I should probably get going so I won't be late again."

"Let me help," you say, also standing and going to grab her gifts. You had both leaned forward at the same time to grab the same items and knock heads. You groan slightly and mumble, "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," she laughs, looking at you with an embarrassed smile. You can feel her breath on your cheek and that's when you realize you two haven't pulled back as far as you thought. In fact, you've barely moved away from one another.

You search out her eyes and start to smile nervously. It's been quite a long time since you've been out with someone, but you wouldn't mistake the signals her eyes are giving you. This is the "in" you've been waiting for and you take it. You brush your lips against hers quickly, briefly. If the first kiss is quick, then you can chalk that up to a mistake. You can apologize for misreading, but you find that's not necessary. She searches out your lips again and you make contact. It's a soft kiss, slow and about as innocent a kiss you've ever taken part in. There's no tongue involved, but you find you don't mind. Why should you? You're kissing Catherine Willows! There's no problem here!

Then there's this whoosh of cold air and she's gone. You open your eyes and her face is panicked. No, no, no! Not good! Not good at all! You blurt out, "Catherine, hey, wait. Wait a sec. . ."

"That was a mistake, Greg," she says evenly. Her tone isn't necessarily cold, but it's serious. She gathers up the globe and her belongings and says, "Greg, I appreciate what you've done, but I can't accept this."

She shoves the globe back into your hands (but not the chocolates, you notice) and firmly says, "I have to go."

"Catherine," you call out to her as she brushes past you. You sound desperate, you realize. You're pleading, but quite frankly, you don't care! You were so close! She pauses in her doorway and waits on you to say something. You stand straight and say, "Catherine, I'm sorry if I crossed the line. I just wanted to be that guy for you. The one you could count on."

Her expression turns into one of sympathy and she walks back over to you. She caresses your cheek with her soft palm and smiles, "You didn't have to prove that to me. I've always counted on you. I've always trusted your intentions to be good. I just can't go there with you. You mean too much to me."

You nod and watch her leave. You decide that maybe Catherine Willows needs you more as friend. You also decide that you don't like that very much at all. You hold up the globe and stare into the replica of New York. With a forlorn expression, you sit the globe back on her desk.

Tomorrow, it'll be like you never gave it to her.

To be continued. . .


	4. Try, Try Again

Disclaimer: See first chapter.

Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews!

**Rewound**

by e-dog

**Chapter Four**

**...Try, Try, Again.**

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

Lyrics play and you find you know them by heart.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

You sit up wishing just this once you could suffer through a hangover, but like magic, whenever you wake, it's like the last 24 hours didn't happen. You're playing some twisted video game where you can never beat the ultimate boss no matter how hard you try.

A hangover would be nice. Your heart won't hurt as much if you spend all your time puking.

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

You had tried staying up. You had tried to keep your eyes open until your alarm went off. You thought that maybe if you didn't fall asleep, then the universe would have no choice but to allow you to move on to the next day. Unfortunately, you knocked out.

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

Lyrics play and you find you know them by heart.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

You wait for the song to be over, hoping beyond hope Dan the Man won't say, "Good afternoon, Las Vegas!" You hope that Bobby won't mention an accident blocking up Scotty's Junction.

"Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!"

You groan, but wait. As long as Bobby doesn't mention the accident, you're golden. You can go on living instead of waking up in a world where Catherine is not in love you. You can go on living and wake up in a world where Nick Stokes doesn't intimidate you. You can go on living and wake up in a world where Sara doesn't have to analyze the same dead stiff over and over again.

Maybe, just maybe, you can wake up in a world where David isn't late to the scene, apologizing for his lateness.

Maybe. . .you can just wake up.

"Thanks Dan! A major accident just outside Scotty's Junction, so if you can, avoid that mess at all costs!"

You breathe in deeply, doing whatever it takes to keep from exploding. You glare at your radio and mutter, "I hate you."

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

The same song starts out softly, the lyrics having a more profound meaning in your life than they had ever had before.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

It's somewhat ironic because you actually do feel dried tears on your cheeks. Did you cry in your sleep this time? Have you reduced yourself to a sniveling child? Was Catherine's rejection that much of a heartbreaker? Well, yes. Yes it was.

It's been about four days since the day you kissed her. Four days since she told you she just "couldn't go there with you". Since then, you've just gone through the motions. You show up at the crime scene as regular ol' Greg. No fancy suit. No fancy hair style. No cufflinks, no gold watch, no alligator shoes, no nothing. You're just you.

Each day, Catherine seems to have noticed you're blue, but you can't seem to tell her why. It's not like she would believe you anyway. What would you say? _So, yeah, Cath. I bought you this gift and kissed you, only to have you outright reject me. Oh, you don't remember? Well, that's because only I can remember it. Sorry. _

You roll onto your back, listening to Dan the Man and Bobby discuss the accident on Scotty's Junction. How long has this been going on? Twenty days? You don't know anymore. You've lost count of how many times you've repeated this day. You rub your tired eyes and wonder for the umpteenth time, why is this happening to you? Why can't you break the cycle? What do you have to do?

Your mind drifts back to Catherine and you groan aloud. She's in your heart now and it's only your fault you feel this way. If only you had listened to her the first time around.

"_You're a sweet kid, Greg. You just gotta learn to manage that heart of yours better. I don't want you to get the wrong idea about someone and then get hurt." _

"Sweet kid," you mumble. "She thinks of me as just a kid. I'm just a kid."

So, how should you start this day? With a shower? A cup of coffee?

How about a phone call?

-------------------------------------------

You tried her apartment phone and got no answer, which you found to be very strange. Sara is either at home or at work. There's no in-between. Where could she be but in her bed resting up for the next shift?

Her cell phone, though, she answered promptly. She was surprised to hear from you and she sounded sleepy, like you had just woken her up. It was obvious she was in bed _somewhere_. After you had ended the call, an unpleasant thought came to you. She had to be at a boyfriend's house. There was no other explanation. She wasn't at her place asleep. She was at _his_ house sleeping, whoever 'his house' happened to be.

You're happy for her, you think. A bit jealous, but happy nonetheless. Sara needs someone. Whoever he is, you hope he's treating her right.

So now you're sitting outside waiting for Sara, the hot sun beating down on you. It's almost three o' clock, the park is still bustling with life. Kids are shouting, women are yelling at their rambunctious antics. Dogs are barking and birds flutter by without a care in the world. You don't come outside often enough, you realize. You need to get out more.

"Greg?" Sara calls out to you. She's walking up to you, the fountain in view behind her. The water spurts up and out, a beautiful backdrop for an equally beautiful woman. She takes a seat on the bench next to you and smiles, "Hey you."

"Hey you," you repeat back.

"You sounded a bit down on the phone," she recalls, looking at you with concerned eyes. "Are you okay?"

You go to answer, but no words come out. Instead, you stand up and motion for her to walk with you. She follows and you begin to meander around the park. You dodge footballs and kids, occasionally chuckling at their innocence and carefree nature. You stop suddenly, under the protective limbs of a tree and look at her. She looks different, you think. The dim lights at the lab just don't do her justice. The sun tones her skin and she's absolutely radiant.

You think you've always been a little bit in love with Sara Sidle, but right in this moment, you can really appreciate her quiet beauty. With Catherine, you were in awe of her outstanding, knock 'em dead good looks. With those looks came a profound strength and wisdom that only comes with age. Sara, on the other hand, has a more youthful charge. She's much more attractive than she gives herself credit for and you've always wanted to tell her that, but was never able to come up with the words.

"You're scaring me, Greg," she says quietly, pointing out subtly that you've been gawking at her boundlessly for the last several moments. It seems you still can't find the words that would describe the essence that is Sara Sidle.

"Sorry," you say, looking down and away. You shove your hands in your pockets. "I don't know where to begin."

"Hey, you can tell me anything," she says encouragingly.

"Okay," you say, taking a deep breath. You stand straight and say simply, "I've been repeating the last 24 hours over and over again, like on a loop."

"What?" she says, clearly not amused. She thinks you're joking.

"I'm repeating the last 24 hours over and over again."

She chuckles. "Okay, when I said tell me anything, I didn't think. . ."

You cut her off, continuing, "I'm slowly losing my mind, trying to make each try better than the last. I don't know what to do anymore because no matter what I do, nothing changes. My rent payment is still late. Our current case yields the same results each night. Catherine thinks I'm a kid. . ."

"And that surprises you?" Sara jests, but she's not laughing. You can see she's getting mildly pissed that you dragged her out here on presumably false pretenses. You dragged her out here away from her new guy. Still, you've come this far. You have to try and convince her.

"Tomorrow, I will wake up and this will have never happened," you say. "Today will start over."

She steps back a little bit, then says disappointed, "C'mon, Greg. I'm not in the mood for games."

Not in the mood?

Oh! That's right! It was in those early repetitions you discovered that Sara was rather _moody_ at the crime scene! How can you use that knowledge to convince her that you're telling the truth? You run a hand through your hair and try to make your case. "Okay, if I'm not repeating today, how do I know that something is wrong with you?"

Now she squints her eyes at you and she mutters, "Excuse me?"

"Something is wrong. I don't know if it's the job or your new boyfriend, but I know that something is not right and it's eating at you," you explain, using what you call your 'investigator's voice'. It's a rather convincing tone of voice, you think.

"Wait, _boyfriend_? Greg, I think you've got the wrong idea," she argues back, but something in her eyes betrays her. You've got her running scared. You must be on the cusp of some big secret, just what is it?

"You know me, Sara," you say sincerely. "You know when I'm joking and when I'm not. I _am_ repeating today over and over again. I have been, it seems, for weeks. I can't get it to stop."

Sara shakes her head, still not believing you. She points at you and scoffs, "You've said some pretty off the wall things, but this. . .this is just too crazy, even for you, Greg." Then she adds, "I have to say though, you deserve an Oscar for this performance. You're making it sound very convincing."

"Because it's the truth, Sara!" you say with conviction. You grab her arms and make her look at you. Once your eyes lock, you reiterate, "I'm repeating today over and over again."

She struggles against your grip for a moment, then loses herself in your hard gaze. A flash of understanding crosses her features as she begins to see how gravely serious you are. She almost whispers, "You've been repeating. . .?"

"The last 24 hours over and over again," you confirm.

She laughs, mostly to herself, and exclaims, "That's impossible, Greg!"

"You don't think I've said the same thing? You don't think that I've consulted all the scientific theories I know that refute such a circumstance!?" you say back, clearly exasperated and exhausted. You let her go and step back, the world around you starting to feel airy and weightless. You feel your legs crumpling, your body overcome with frustration. Your knees hit the ground, as do other emotions. This experience has made some pieces of your life clearer, if not overtly mundane.

You are lonely.

You flirt unsuccessfully with all the women you work with. They are either mildly flattered by your attentions, emotionally unavailable, or in Sara's case, already taken.

Nick and Warrick view you as the younger brother, the guy they can mercilessly pick on and get away with it. It's now, you think, they just let you tag along so as not to hurt your feelings.

Grissom is always irritated with you, so there's nothing new there.

Catherine. . .Catherine can't give you what you so desperately need.

The repetition of this day has only proved how utterly pathetic you are. You leave for work by yourself and arrive home in the same fashion. Your closest friends are your co-workers. Your mother lives too far away. The lawyer who is supposed to be helping you in your civil case is also out of reach. You are lonely. You are alone.

You feel arms envelope you and notice for the first time that you've begun to cry. You're not blubbering like a child, but a tear or two has burned paths down your cheeks. Soft lips kiss those tears away and you focus your eyes on Sara. Her smile is bashful as she explains, "My mother used to do that for me. She said that tears meant you weren't getting enough hugs and kisses. Of course, she was usually drunk when she said this."

You sniffle and ask with great intrigue, "She was a drunk?"

"She was a hippy," Sara half laughs, but her soul is obviously heavy and regretful. "Oddly enough, her drinking binges were some of the few times we actually got along. Despite her weaknesses, I knew that her love for me was strong in those moments. Years later. . .that piece of her faded away."

For a moment you're in awe, then you find your voice.

"You never talk about your mother," you say.

"I know," she nods, then repositions the two of you so that you can lean into her hug more comfortably. It's too hot outside to be this close, the sweat on your skin mingling with hers. Still, you don't want to move. You can't move. She whispers against your hair, "I know the last month hasn't been easy. The civil suit doesn't help, but what you've said to me. . ."

"It's the truth," you interrupt.

She's quiet for a moment, then speaks again. She doesn't try to refute your claim. "In all the time I've known you, I don't think I've ever seen you cry."

You don't cry. At least, not In front of other people. You normally reserve your sadness for when you're alone. Normal, however, is not what your life is anymore. You're different. You're broken.

You clear your dry throat and admit, "I, uh, didn't have a lot of time for crying, you know. I conditioned myself not to. I was picked on as a kid but I didn't want to worry Mom, so I didn't cry about it. Crying worried her."

"And now?" she asks softly.

You nod your head and say truthfully, "I let it out whenever I can."

Sara nods, her eyes softening and the worry wrinkles etched in her forehead deepening. "For a while, you seemed to be okay, Greg. You were on the job, being yourself. I thought that you were okay. What you're saying is strange, but I want to help if I can."

"I do need help," you confirm, sorrow washing over you. You shut your heavy eyelids. You're tired. You're very, very tired and Sara is the best pillow a man could ask for. You wonder aloud, "How do you keep doing what we do? How can you show up for work, bringing all that is you and still be objective?"

"I just do, Greg," she says simply. "I think in the beginning, I dreamed of grandeur and heroism. I was a female competing against the odds in a man's world, battling the tribulations that come with being the new kid. I mean, Catherine hated me when I first started. I'm not so sure Warrick liked me either."

"I liked you," you say wistfully.

You feel her laugh rumble through her chest. "You've always liked me."

"True."

You finally sit up and out of her embrace. Despite the high temperatures, you feel cold without her arms around you. Still, you want to be facing her when she speaks to you. You swallow hard and ask, "So what changed? What happened to wanting to be that hero?"

You see her expression turn thoughtful, before she answers, "I think. . .I grew up."

"Grew up?" you repeat, like this phrase is completely foreign to you. It shouldn't be. Everyone around you has been commenting on what a "nice kid" you are.

"Yeah, I grew up," her smile is resigned and you wonder why. She elaborates, "I mean, I guess I still dream, but each day is no different than the last. I get up, I go to work, I help to solve a new case. There will always be someone out there who has no voice. If I stop being their voice, then who will speak for them?"

While you have been literally repeating the last 24 hours over and over again, you begin to see that Sara has been repeating her days over and over again too. Just figuratively. She has settled into a routine that revolves around her work. Not because she's a workaholic with no life. Clearly she does have a life, with a boyfriend to boot. Her routine revolves around her work because she cares. . .deeply. It's her work that gets her out of the bed in the morning, not the prospect of being the best CSI money can buy.

You had tried to do that. The fancy suit, using your knowledge of events untold to try and solve the case by yourself. That's not what this job is about. You look at Sara, your expression one of awe and you say, "I want to be like you when I grow up."

She smiles broadly, reaching her hand out to you. You grab hold of it and she squeezes tightly. "Will you be okay, Greg?"

"I"m great now," you nod confidently. "Thanks, Sara. I just needed a friend."

"Call me any time," she says earnestly.

You both rise from the ground, hands still joined. You stare at your hands, then pull your hand back bashfully. Sara is attached to another man, you remember. No sense in getting that little heart of yours broken again. Your hands don't seem to be listening to you though. You reach up to cup her face in your palm. You pause, expecting her to back away, but she doesn't. So you cup her cheek in your hand, the pad of your thumb making small circles against her fair skin. You step closer and tell her gently, "You can tell me anything, Sara. I know something is wrong, but I won't push. Tell me when you're ready."

She holds your hand in place and asks, "How did you know?"

"I told you," you smile playfully. "I'm repeating the same day. . ."

"Over and over again," she finishes with a laugh, before pulling your hand away from her face. She places your arm back at your side and then crosses her own arms. She looks away for a moment, then turns back to you, "What's going on with me will pass, but I appreciate you reaching out."

"Who is it?" you ask, your tone still gentle. "Just give me a name. If he messes up again, I'll egg his house."

She chuckles, something about egging her boyfriend's house highly amusing. Then she remarks jokingly, "What? You don't know who it is?"

"No, I don't know," you smile. "This is the first time I've been able to ask about this mysterious boyfriend of yours."

You see her visibly relax. Whoever this boyfriend is, she wants it to remain a secret. Or maybe she wants to tell you, but doesn't know how. Her phone rings, startling you both. She reaches for it, her expression blank as she reads the caller ID. You wait on her to say something. She looks at you, a conflict in her eyes. The war within her head is over soon enough as she sighs, "It's Grissom."

"Oh," you say, then pause. It's not time for shift yet. You're not late, so why would he be calling her now?

Oh.

Oh, oh, oh.

You repeat with widened eyes, "Ohhhhhhh."

"Yeah," she confirms for you. "Oh."

"Wow," you breathe, completely stunned. She actually did it. Well, more like he finally got around to claiming someone he had ignored for years. He finally said yes to her advances. Unfortunately for you, that only makes your heart ache more for her. It aches because now you know you have no chance with her. You can't compete with Grissom. It aches because you love her.

It's her turn to brush the back of her hand against your cheek. "I'm sorry, Greg. I know you've. . ."

"Hey, don't worry about me," you chuckle uneasily. You're trying to be brave.

Her expression turns thoughtful and she muses, "Not the reaction I was expecting."

You admit, you are taking this news very well. As much as you would like to discuss office politics and the no-no that is dating your superior, you won't do that with Sara. You shrug, "So? You're dating your boss. Big deal. You love him."

A warm blush rises up her neck and she tries to hide it. That only confirms that she does love him. Suck it up, you tell yourself. Just suck it up and be brave. Maybe if you don't look at her, it won't hurt as much.

"I wouldn't judge you," you tell her. "Just don't let him hurt you. Don't hurt him. You know? Just be happy and all that lovey dovey stuff."

She tilts her head attentively, eyeing you with great wonder. She backs away and tells you, "I'll see you later? I have to run."

"I think I'll take today off," you say. Going to work today just wouldn't _work_ right now. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She pauses, clearly in deep thought. She looks up and asks, "Will I remember this tomorrow?"

So she does believe you, albeit reluctantly. You shake your head sadly, "No, you won't."

To your surprise, she laughs, "Now that, Greg, is the cruelest prank you've pulled in a long time. Just. . .be gentle with me. You're the only one who knows about Grissom and I."

You assure, "No worries, Sara. I'll just continue to admire you from afar." You overtly bow, gesturing with your arm elaborately as you bend down to the only queen in your life. As you return to an upright position, you hear her laugh.

You really like to hear her laugh.

To be continued. . .


	5. Can't Catch Tomorrow

Disclaimer: See first chapter.

Author's Notes: See first chapter.

Summary: Greg Sanders finds himself repeating the same 24 hour period over and over again.

**Rewound**

by e-dog

**Chapter Five**

**Can't Catch Tomorrow**

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

Lyrics play and you find you know them by heart.

_"And the tears come streaming down your face._

_When you lose something you can't replace."_

"When you love someone but it goes to waste," you continue on, singing into your pillow. "Could it be worse?"

Sara and Grissom. Grissom and Sara. The shock you're experiencing isn't like the 'normal flabbergasted, takes your breath away' kind of shock. It's numbing. It's paralyzing. It's painfully real. Grissom and Sara. You thought you could be brave, but now you're not so sure. It's not like you can actually move on with your life. The hurt will be there and it'll be new and it'll sting just as fresh as the first time you found out.

Grissom and Sara. You're stuck in this infinite loop and you'll never be given the luxury of time. You won't have the time to heal. The question is, why? Why are you stuck?

You have yet to figure that one out. You don't think of yourself as a bad person. Conceited at times, maybe. Overzealous, perhaps. However, to say you're a person in need of punishment for a misdeed? No, no, no, there has to be another reason.

Despite your current feelings, you can't help but wonder aloud, "What would Grissom do?"

He would say look at the evidence. What does it tell you? Okay then. You started the workday in the back alley of a restaurant, a poor young man strangled to death. Sara was acting strange, for reasons you are now privy to. Nick and Catherine started questioning the restaurant owner. You took pictures of half eaten food items and bagged a bloody tissue. So what went wrong?

You can't think of anything. You were just doing your job.

Okay, next stop is the lab. You flirted with Wendy, unsuccessfully. Next, you flirted with Catherine. Again, unsuccessfully. You spun your wheels on the case, had drinks with Nick and Warrick and pouted when you realized you had no one at home waiting for you.

Hmm. Is this really all about _you_? Is it not about being wrong or evil but simply about being _you_? You can't imagine this is about you.

What has taken up most of your time during this redundant day? The case. Are you missing something in the case and can't seem to find the missing link?

Are you missing something else entirely different? Does it even have to do with work?

You sit up in your bed, listening to the traffic report about Scotty's Junction.

_"Thanks Dan! A major accident just outside Scotty's Junction, so if you can, avoid that mess at all costs!"_

You look at your radio, squinting your eyes in thought. Maybe what's happening to you isn't as complex as you're trying to make it. You repeat aloud, "Avoid that mess at all costs."

Maybe this isn't about you fixing a wrong. Maybe it's about you just getting it right. All this time you've been trying to take advantage of your plight. You marveled at what repeating the same day could do for you, but you never sat back to ask why. How about this time around you just take Bobby's advice: Avoid that mess at all costs. Avoid the grandeur and the heroism.

You smile to yourself. You suddenly feel inspired. Yeah. That's right. There is something you can do about all this.

You're going to fix today, but not with force or flashy Armani suits. You're going to do the right thing because you would expect nothing less from yourself. You're going to be honest, true. You're going to be you.

That's really all you can do.

-------------------------------------------

"Mr. Sanders! Need I remind you that you're late paying the rent?"

You're standing by your car, fully dressed and showered. You decided to go in early this time, catch the beginning of swing shift. Close up a case or two. You were so determined to get to work, you nearly forgot you would run into Mrs. Templeton on the way out. Oh, but that doesn't mean you weren't prepared to see her. As she walks up, ready to scold, you hold up an envelope. "For you, dear."

"What?" she says, taking the envelope from your hands. She looks inside to find a check. Her look of shock is priceless and highly entertaining for you. She looks at you, astounded. "Your rent payment?"

"I should've given it to you yesterday," you confess. "It's about time I learned to manage my finances a bit better, Mrs. Templeton."

She smiles and it's the most genuine smile she has ever given you. "Good for you, Greggy. Good for you."

You can't keep from twitching at the nettling nickname. Greggy. Maybe, after all is said and done, you'll have a talk with her about that. You go to open your car door, then pause. Hmm. Why wait? You turn around and say sweetly, "It's Greg, Mrs. Templeton. Not Greggy."

The older woman stops, turns back to look at you and smiles. "Did I ever tell you that you're my favorite tenant?"

You pause again. Nervously, you shake your head. "No, you haven't."

"Have a good day, Mr. Sanders," Mrs. Templeton nods at you, before heading back inside.

You stand there a moment, before you promise to yourself, "I will have a good day, Mrs. Templeton. I will have a good day."

-------------------------------------------

You step out of the locker room and catch a sight you normally wouldn't see, or at the very least wouldn't have paid attention to so closely. Sara and Grissom are toe-to-toe, standing near his office door and talking discreetly about something. Well, maybe that isn't as unusual as you would like to think. It's only now can you catch the sexual overtones of their movements, the gentle care in their expressions. You can see something different in their eyes. To think you had been seeing this all along, your crush on Sara (and every other woman at the lab) acting as effective blinders.

What you don't expect to see, however, is Sara pushing Grissom back and away from her. You know Sara and she is not particularly confrontational, at least not in the physical sense. She rarely lays a finger on anyone, so to see her forcefully push Grissom back is a bit of a surprise. She brushes past him and down the hall, leaving the bewildered man helpless and visibly scarred. You stare a few seconds longer, recognizing that expression on Grissom's face. It's the "confused about women folk and their ways" expression. You almost feel sorry for him.

You quickly scoot away, not wanting to get caught spying. It would probably be smart to avoid Sara as well, but you're itching to see if she's okay. She may not be in love with you, but that doesn't mean you don't have to be her friend.

Briskly walking the halls, you find her hunched over a microscope. There's a scowl etched so deeply into that beautiful face, you just know Grissom will be in the doghouse for at least a couple of nights. You knock on the table to get her attention. "Hey."

She glances up, her smile obviously forced. Her voice is undoubtedly surprised. "Hey. You're in early."

"So are you," you observe. _Having an argument with your boyfriend at the lab. . ._

She checks her watch, "It's only 2:30."

You grin. "You do know our shift doesn't start for another _several_ hours, right?"

"I'm behind on some stuff," she defends herself lightly.

"So am I," you say softly, winking at her.

She purses her lips, that classic Sidle grin just about to explode. It's a grin, you think, she's reserved only for you. Or at least you'd like to think that. She returns her eyes to her work, that grin still fighting to break through.

So, you clear your throat. "Right. Well, I'll let you work. I've got some cases to close."

She smiles at you. "You're actually in early to work? Novel concept, Greg."

"Just trying to impress the boss," you shrug. You see her flinch a little. You suspected mentioning Grissom would sting. You hate that it makes you a tad happy inside. You don't want her sadness to make you hopeful.

"You know, Greg. You're good at what you do and Grissom knows that," she tells you, smiling softly now. "You don't have to impress anyone."

No? Well, you think you do. She's standing right in front of you.

-------------------------------------------

Your flashlight leaves a trail of evidence to follow. From the overturned trash by the dumpster to the cold stiff lying in a puddle of muck, you tread over the asphalt surface carefully. Another light soon joins yours. Then another and another. The four of you stop at the body.

Before long, Catherine barks out her orders.

"Greg, take pictures of the dumpster and process. Sara, you cover the body until David gets here. Nick and I will start asking questions inside."

"As you wish, my lady," you smile winningly.

Catherine smiles back (as you suspected she would) before she and Nick disappear inside to talk to the owner. Over the last couple of years, Catherine has been good to you. Taking you along for rides to interrogate potential suspects. Helping process evidence. Teaching you what you need to know. It's only now do you really appreciate what she has done for you. You don't need to woo her in order to show your admiration or your gratitude. You just need to be her friend.

Watching her pick Nick to tag along no longer nettles you either. Nick is more experienced than you, no question there. That jealously you experienced, that dreadful green monster that reared its ugly head in your heart had nothing to do with looks or charm. Cath doesn't choose Nick over you simply because he's great eye candy and can distract even the most hardened of suspects. Nick is a great CSI. You are still learning. You're happy that you're still learning. Not only is there less responsibility, but the pressure to get everything right isn't as grand. You don't feel the need to be the lab hero. You can just be you.

Besides, Armani suits are damn expensive.

A bright flash snaps you out of your daydreaming. Sara's camera. You glance over to her, seeing her hunched over the body and inspecting it closely. Just for fun, you overtly stare at her ass, before returning back to your work.

"I saw that," she teases, her slow drawl containing an ever so playful twang. She continues to process without even looking at you, but that knowing smile is slowly crossing her face.

"What are you talking about?"

"You. My ass. Stop checking it out," she explains pointedly, yet jokingly.

You think on that for a moment, then shrug. "Okay."

She looks up at you and repeats,"Okay?"

"Okay," you say again, grinning as you bag the crucial bloody tissue. You'll need this tissue.

You look at her to find she is giving you that famed "Confused Sidle Stare", then she shakes her head and returns her attention to the body. Done with your work at the dumpster, you saunter on over to the body and kneel down. You observe, "Ligature marks around the neck. Strangled?"

"Yeah, maybe," she agrees. Then looks at you, her voice filled with disbelief. "That's it, then? You don't wanna check me out?"

You're taken aback by her question, but that doesn't stop your creeping smile. She begins to blush fiercely as she stammers, "That came out wrong."

"Hi guys," David says, walking up with his kit. "Sorry I'm late."

"Hey," you both say and watch him kneel down next to you. Fortunately for Sara, David missed your little exchange. You can see her swallowing hard, trying to focus on the case at hand. It's taking a lot of will power on your part to stay focused too. I mean, was that just an overt invitation from Sara to check her out whenever you want? Was it???

"Ligature marks around his neck would suggest strangulation," David states after a few moments. An observation you both have already made without him. Again, you catch annoyance flash across Sara's features and you're reminded of the harsh reality you find yourself in. Sara's boyfriend is really your boss and whatever happened between them before shift has her all moody and sullen. You hope that Grissom fixes whatever he got wrong. You don't like to see Sara unhappy.

David sticks a thermometer below the abdomen of the body and tells you, "Liver temp would suggest time of death was a few hours ago. Maybe less."

"Thanks, David," you say, before Sara can. Again, you catch her puzzled stare. You both rise to your feet and leave David to the body. You turn to Sara and ask, "Hey, is everything okay?"

"Yeah, why?" she says, her attention on her camera. You gently take the camera from her hands which elicits a weak protest from her. "Hey, what's going on?"

"That's what I would like to know," you tell her. She reaches for her camera, but you keep it out of her reach. "Uh uh. Not until you tell me."

"Greg," she sighs. "I'm not in the mood for games."

"Then talk to me," you request softly. You dangle her camera as incentive.

"After shift?" she says meekly. Her tone sounds almost lost, helpless.

"Okay," you nod, handing her camera back. You revert to work mode quickly, for her sake. "I think I'll hop in the dumpster. Look for anything that might've left half inch wide marks on this guy's neck. Could be a potential murder weapon."

Sara smirks at you. "You? Want to go dumpster diving?"

"That's where all the great CSIs get their start, right?" you say, winking.

She smiles. "Let me review these pics, then I'll give you a hand, okay?"

Now _that's_ different. You nod, truly grateful, "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

-------------------------------------------

Once again, your dumpster diving produces nothing fruitful. No murder weapon. Nothing remotely incriminating or helpful. You are stuck with no leads. Of course, getting down and dirty with Sara in the dumpster was a bonus. A very _nice_ bonus.

"Hey, just the guy I wanted to see," you hear as you whiz by DNA. You come to an abrupt halt and turn around. Wendy is smiling and waving at you to come back. Again, you observe how nice her hair is tonight, casually flipped up in a clip. You also take note of her pearly whites flashing like beacons in your direction. She's in a very good mood.

Wait. She's in a good mood. Why didn't you notice this before!

"You're looking radiant tonight," you compliment, to which you swear she blushes. "Did you have a special night on the town recently?"

"Actually, I did," she answers. Ah. Your suspicions were correct. No wonder Wendy rejects your every advance lately. She's taken.

"Who is this guy?" you prod, giving her a curious eyebrow raise. Just for kicks, you ask, "Do I have to egg his house?"

"Uh, no to the latter and as for the former, that is none of your business," Wendy tells you with a wink. "However, this is. Your DNA results."

You pretend to have never seen the results before in your life. Your eyes go over the data like it's all brand new and fascinating. You thank Wendy and leave, just in time to run into Catherine. You'd be lying if you said your heart didn't burn a little every time you saw her, but each time it burns less. That means you're healing.

"Greg, how's your stuff coming?" Catherine asks.

"DNA kicked out a name. Tracy Marshall," you report, handing her the piece of paper. You also add, "I like what you've done with your hair. New color?"

She glances up, her eyes filled with intrigue. "Uh, yeah, actually. Thanks."

"You're quite welcome," you say, taking your results back. "Now, I've got a hunch. What if this Tracy works at the restaurant? We can go back and ask for their employee records. If she works there, it places her at the scene and with easy access to the back alley."

Catherine nods. "Well, even if she does work there, placing her at the scene will be a bit of a stretch. For all we know, the bloody tissue was random. Could've been dumped before the murder."

"We'll never know if we don't ask," you shrug.

"Okay, run with it," she orders, motioning with her head in the direction of the trace lab. "Nick is talking to Hodges. Take him with you."

Take Nick with you? Does Catherine know she inadvertently put you in charge? Sweet!

"Cool, I'll grab him," you say, watching Catherine walk away. You quickly jog down the hall to trace and save Nick from more of Hodges' dry storytelling. "Hey, you're with me."

"He's with you?"

"I'm with you?"

Nick is pointing at himself while Hodges is pointing at Nick, their questions leaving their mouths simultaneously. Their eyes are filled with disbelief.

You motion with your head insistently, "C'mon, let's go."

Nick is grinning, clearly amused, but he follows you out of the trace lab happy to leave Hodges behind him. He laughs. "Okay, I ask again. I'm with you?"

You smile. "Yeah. Cath says you're with me. Let's go."

"Okay," Nick says, shrugging his indifference. "Where are _you_ taking me?"

"Back to the restaurant. DNA came back on a woman named Tracy Marshall. I want to see if she works at the restaurant."

You already know that she does, but you have to try and pretend that you don't. You have to get this day right. You have to solve this case the right way.

Nick nods, impressed with your ingenuity. "Good call, Greg. Let's slice and dice."

-------------------------------------------

You both arrive at the restaurant around 1 in the morning. Just like most establishments in Vegas, this place is open all night long. Light jazz filters from the front into the back, where you and Nick wait patiently for Gilman to arrive. Sofia is out by the car, double checking a 419 call she received over the airwaves. You suspect you won't need her for this. It's just a simple interview.

When you start talking to Gilman about his restaurant and his employees, that's when a woman begins to hover around. When she hears Nick mention Tracy, she drops what she is doing and bolts. The next thing you know, you're running through the restaurant, bumping into drunk people and knocking over dinner plates. Gilman is behind you yelling, "No! Not my beautiful dishes!"

Well, breaking fine dishware is the last thing on your mind. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Nick get caught up in an unsuspecting waiter's arms. He's tangled up. Only you have the best shot at catching Tracy before she's gone forever.

So, this is what you've been waiting for, right? The chance to be the lab hero?

You think you might throw up.

You clumsily jump over an arrant chair, nearly fall flat on your face in the process, but manage to stumble back up into a standing position. Next, you're racing through the front entrance and pounding the pavement. Tracy is just a few yards ahead of you. You see her heading for the alley where you found the victim. You also know that Sofia is back there by the car. As you run, you yell, "Suspect on the run! Suspect on the run!"

Tracy races past the alleyway just before Sofia comes flying out at your call. Now you're both running neck in neck, trying to catch her and your lungs burn for air.

Tracy crosses the street unexpectedly. Sofia yells, "Greg! Go. . .!"

"I know what to do!" you tell her, making a sharp turn and crossing the street. Actually, you have no idea what you're doing and nearly getting hit by a hot red sports car reminds you of this. You avoid death by mere inches. God, what the hell are you doing? Nick or Warrick usually end up chasing people, not you!

"Stop! LVPD!" Sofia is ten yards ahead of you, still on the other side of the street. Cars are whizzing by and people are shouting as you both push through them. Tracy isn't that far ahead. She's getting tired. Unfortunately, so are you. Maybe shouting will slow her down.

"Tracy! We just want to talk!" you yell after her, your voice hoarse and weak. Your voice, however, does make her pause at her name. Good. Good. She might stop. She might. . .

Then the unthinkable happens. A car pulls out of a driveway, suddenly. Tracy is hit, her body flipping up onto the hood and smacking the windshield. She rolls off and lands on the pavement.

No. Oh no.

You called her out. She slowed down because you called her out. She got hit by the car because of you. She might have missed it had you not called her name. She might have been more alert. It's your fault.

Within seconds, you're by her side. You hold up her head and feel tears behind your eyes. Her eyes are not open. You don't know if she's breathing, so you check for a pulse. It's slight, but it's there. You yell out, "Tracy!"

You've never met her and yet you feel like you know her. You do know her. You've known her for weeks now. You've known _her name_ for weeks and she's unconscious in your arms.

"C'mon, Tracy," you urge. "Wake up."

Sofia finally reaches you, her walkie already on. "Suspect is down and in need of medical attention! I repeat, send back up and a bus!"

Then Tracy coughs. You release a pent up laugh of relief. "Hey, hey, you'll be okay."

You look up at Sofia, breathing hard.

Sofia wants to say something, but the driver of the car is by her side and is hysterical. The detective tends to the driver, while you hold onto Tracy. You look down and whisper, "Hang on. I've got you. Just hang on."

-------------------------------------------

You look at your watch. It's 9 in the morning. You're running out of time.

Before you know it, it'll be 1 pm. You'll be back in your bed and today will start over. Your eyelids are starting to feel heavy too. You already know you won't be able to fight off the sleep. You've tried it before. No matter what happens, you always pass out and wake up in your bed at 1 p.m. on the dot. You don't have a lot of time.

"Greg."

"Sara," you say, turning to face her. She immediately embraces you and you hug her back. You shut your eyes and whisper into her hair. "She's still unconscious. It's all my fault."

Sara shushes you gently, rubbing your back. "Sofia told me everything. She saw it all, had a very good view. There was nothing you could've done."

"I still feel like crap," you admit. You pull out of the embrace, unable to keep from sniffling.

She gives you a half smile. "You were there for her. That's what counts, Greg."

You nod. It's about all you can do. You hadn't really thought about that.

Sara gently tugs on your arm, "C'mon, let's get some coffee."

You don't move. You look through the glass again, view Tracy in her bed. You say, "Tracy's doctor says she may be out for a while. She's got a nice bump on her head and a few lacerations from the windshield. I screwed this up again. I did everything the way I should've from the beginning and I still screwed up."

"Greg? What are talking about?" Sara asks, her voice clearly confused.

You look at her. What do you say? That you're repeating this day over and over again? Do you really think you'll be able to pull off that story a second time? Well, there's only one way to find out. You take her arm and lead her to the cafeteria. "Yeah, let's get some coffee."

Once you two have fresh, hot steaming cups of crap'ola, you just say it. "I'm repeating the last 24 hours over and over again. Like on a loop."

"What?" she laughs. She thinks you're joking. Again.

You don't have time to convince her, you realize. Tracy is out cold and you need her to wake up. You need to solve this case. You have to. You can't do this again. You can't repeat this day again. You rub your eyes and say, "I'm repeating today over and over and I'll prove it."

Sara is still smiling, not taking note of your grave expression. "Okay. Prove it."

You say bluntly, "You're dating Grissom."

Her smile fades. Her eye twitches, but every other piece of her body has literally frozen in place. She's frozen. You give her hand a jostle only trying to snap her out of the haze, but she rips her hand from your grasp. You're suddenly poison. Finally, she shakes her head, "Greg. . I think you got the wrong idea, here."

"No, I don't and you know I don't," you say, nearly raising your voice. "You're dating Grissom. Nick has an old flame named Cindy. Warrick likes to tell bad jokes when he's drunk and Catherine has never been to New York. Oh, and Wendy has a boyfriend."

Sara's mouth falls open. She's speechless.

You lean forward, using her silence as a chance to make your case. "I think the only way to get this to stop, is to solve this case. I've done all that I can. I've taken care of my rent payment, took responsibility for my work and caseload, accepted my position in our workplace hierarchy and have found the only clue in our case that has any significance. If I don't solve this case, today will begin again. . .later today. At 1 o'clock."

Sara has listened to your every word, her brow furrowed in deep thought and concentration. She has kept eye contact with you and you hope she can see that you're telling her the truth. To your misfortune, she shakes her head, then says, "Okay. Predict something. Prove to me that this is happening."

"What?" you say. This isn't good. This part of the cycle, being at the hospital, it's all new to you.

"Predict something," she pushes. "You claim to have lived this all before. If you're telling me the truth, then all you have to do is predict something."

You cringe. Usually, you would be with Warrick and Nick at this hour, just finishing up your bar crawl. You've never been here before. You can't predict any of the events here.

You sigh. "Okay, look. This hospital bit, it's all new to me. I've never made it here before, but that doesn't matter. What matters is what I know and I know about you and Grissom. The only way I could've known is if you told me. Which you did."

Sara shakes her head in disbelief. "When?"

"Uh, a few days ago," you answer.

"No I didn't," she argues back.

"Yeah, you did, you just don't remember," you say, exasperated. "Sara, please. Please listen to me. A few days ago, we talked. You told me about Grissom, then the next day, it was like it never happened. Do you understand, Sara?"

Sara just stares at you before weakly saying, "I never told . . .We haven't told anyone."

"For obvious reasons," you interrupt urgently. "Look, I understand the secrecy, okay? I understand, but that's not what's important right now. Sara. . I need you. I need you to believe me and help me."

"I told you?" Sara asks, leaning back in her chair. She's stuck. She's stuck in some daze and you don't need her to be stuck right now. You need her to be unstuck!

"Sara, please. I don't have a lot of time," you plead. "Help me. Help me solve this case before 1 p.m."

Suddenly, you feel lightheaded. You rise form your chair only to fall into another chair. Sara is by your side in an instant. "Greg? Are you okay, Greg?"

You look at her. She is all hazy. No. It's happening. Sleep. The inevitable quietus. This damn universe is trying to knock you out again! It's trying to start the day over! You stand up, pushing her back, "No! Not now!"

"Greg! What's wrong?" Sara calls out to you. She grabs your arm to steady you. You are wobbly. You're very wobbly. "What's wrong? Do you need a doctor?"

"No, I need to save Tracy," you tell her. "I'm getting tired. I can't fall asleep, Sara. Don't let me. . .fall asleep. . ."

You probably look and sound like a crazy man. There are other patrons in the cafeteria giving you those looks. Sara is giving you _that_ look. She doesn't believe you. Unlike the last time, she doesn't believe a damn word that you're saying. She's still too shocked you know about Grissom to even care. She thinks you're crazy.

You look at her helplessly, "Sara. You don't believe me?"

"Greg, I'm worried about you," she confesses. "You're not acting like yourself."

"I have to go," you say persistently. You pull away from her hold and stumble out of the cafeteria. Where are you going? You don't know yet. You have to think for minute. You have to. . .

You hit a wall and slide down. Your eyes are so damn heavy. What time is it? Where are you?

"Greg!"

That's Sara.

She's hazy. You can barely keep your eyes open.

No.

You can't.

Fall.

Asleep.

To be continued. . .


	6. Not Gonna Take It This Time

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

Author's Notes: See first chapter.

Summary: Greg Sanders finds himself repeating the same 24 hour period over and over again.

**Rewound**

by e-dog

**Chapter Six**

**Not Gonna Take It This Time**

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

Lyrics play and the words make your ears bleed.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

Your eyes snap open.

-------------------------------------------

Tracy crosses the street. Sofia yells, "Greg! Go. . .!"

"I know what to do!" you tell her, making a sharp turn and crossing the street. And this time, you know exactly what to do. Majestically, you time your jump and leap over the red hot sports car that is barreling toward you. You land on feather light feet and make it to the other side. Now, you put on the afterburners.

This is your fourth attempt at trying to catch Tracy. Your fourth attempt at trying to save her life. Let's just say your leg muscles have improved greatly over these last four days.

"Stop! LVPD!" Sofia is ten yards ahead of you, still on the other side of the street. Cars are whizzing by and people are shouting as you both push through them. Tracy isn't that far ahead. She's getting tired. Fortunately, you are not.

You grind your teeth, pushing and willing your legs to run faster. It's not going to happen this time, you think. You can't watch her get hit by that car again. You won't.

Calling her out, didn't work. Trying to catch her at the restaurant, before she deduced who you were? That didn't work either. She's a fast little bugger. The third time, well, you tripped on your way out the door and lost her forever. Fourth time's the charm, right?

"Aughhhh!" you shout out, as you tackle Tracy to the ground just a few feet away from the driveway. Seconds later, the very same car that hit Tracy the last time, speeds on out none the wiser. You're breathing hard, the young woman trapped beneath you is struggling to break free. You watch the car drive away and begin to laugh. You laugh as you get a better grip on Tracy's wrists and hold her still.

Sofia approaches. "Greg? You okay?"

You manage to get your laughter under control and proclaim, "Never better!"

It's the truth. This is the best shape your body has been in, in like, four years!

-------------------------------------------

"Greg!" Nick calls you from down the hall. You're at the station now, waiting on Sofia to question Tracy. Nick is smiling from ear to ear as he approaches you. He pats you hard on the shoulder and says astounded, "You were like lightning, man! One second, I'm tangled up in some waiter's arms and the next thing I know, you're gone!"

"I've been working out," you joke.

"No, seriously man. Great job," Nick says sincerely, still grinning at you. "I didn't think you had it in you. Sofia told me all about it, you know. Said you were like some crazed superhero junkie flying through the air and tackling our perp."

"She said that?" you say, finding it difficult to keep from chuckling. You a superhero? Yeah, right!

"You bet I did," Sofia answers for Nick, approaching with a wry smile of her own. "I never got to say 'good job', Sanders. So, good job."

You nod just as Sofia tells you it's time to talk to Tracy. You look at Nick, but he waves you on. "You got this, Greg. I need to head back to the morgue anyway. We finally got an I.D on our victim. His name is Eric Quinn."

"You got an I.D.?" You ask, surprised. You never got the I.D. before.

"Yeah, while I was still holed up at the restaurant, Mr. Gilman showed me where her locker was. She had our dead guy's wallet."

You smile. Tracy had the dead guy's wallet.

-------------------------------------------

Tracy Marshall, you discover, is not a day over twenty three. She's naive, a high school drop out and completely oblivious to her rights. She refuses a lawyer. Her job in the kitchen requires washing dishes, mopping the floors and taking out the trash. She doesn't want to say much to you or Sofia, which definitely doesn't bode well for you. Your shift is nearly over. Before you know it, you'll be asleep again and waking up to that stupid song. Today will start over and you can't let that happen. Your sanity might not hold out much longer if it does.

"Let's try this again, Tracy," Sofia says, bringing you back to the interrogation. "Eric Quinn was found dead outside where you work. Your bloody tissue places you at the scene. His wallet was in your locker. You don't talk now, I can't make any promises."

"You have priors, Tracy," you remind her. "Under suspicion of murder two years back, remember? A second accusation of murder doesn't look good for you."

"Not to mention, you ran away from us. You made yourself look guilty," Sofia added. Tracy visibly winces. "You got something to say?"

"No," she says, her head low and voice even lower. That's when you see it.

"Tracy, look at me," you instruct.

She rises her head and you study her neck intently. Bruising. "What happened to your neck, Tracy?"

Her hand immediately goes up and rubs the tender lines. They look exactly like the ligature marks on Eric Quinn's body. You think you see her starting to tear up. She's going to cry.

You look at Sofia, wondering what the next best course of action is. She's giving you the same look as if to say, 'you're the CSI'. You nod and turn back to Tracy, "If you'll let me, I'd like to take pictures. Can I do that?"

You don't really have to ask. Tracy is _your_ suspect, but you find taking the gentle approach is appropriate. She nods her permission and you grab your camera. You instruct her to move her hair back and begin snapping away. You don't know if the photos are necessary, but this will buy you a bit of time to think. If Tracy and Eric both have the same injuries, wouldn't that mean Tracy wasn't the attacker?

Once done with taking photos, you say, "Thank you."

"Can you tell us how that happened?" Sofia asks, now trying your tactic. Show sympathy, then maybe she'll talk.

"No," she says again, trying to hide the bruises.

Now you feel like dropping down on your knees and begging.

Today is winding down. Before too long, it'll be 9 a.m. You'll start to feel woozy, sleepy, tired. You can't let that happen. Not when you feel so close to solving this crime. Not when you feel deep down that Tracy was more a victim than a murderer. Both she and Eric were attacked. . .together. That bloody tissue? Probably to clean up a wound from the attack. It's just, this is all speculation until Tracy says something of significance!

You can't very well beg for that information. Well, maybe. . .

"Eric's wallet was in your locker, but not because you stole it," you begin. You hear Sofia move in her chair. You know she's wondering what you're doing. So what the hell are you doing?

"No, Eric wasn't just some ol' dead corpse," you say, trying to provoke her. "Or was he?"

"No," she grinds out between her teeth. "Eric was my friend."

Okay! Score points for you! You keep going. "You saw Eric's killer, just as he was finished his dirty job. You tried to help Eric. You ran over, but the killer hit you instead. That's when you started to bleed, am I right?"

Again Tracy nods. You look at Sofia. She's not pleased with what you're doing. You don't care. You were right. Tracy wasn't the killer. You turn back, ignoring Sofia's disappointed stare. "Tracy, it's very important that you tell me what happened, in your own words, okay? You have to tell me what happened. Do it for Eric."

"Can I see him?" she begs, now tears slowly trickling down her face.

"Once you answer our questions," Sofia promises. Tracy nods once more. "Okay. Why did you run?"

"Victor said you would come after me. He said you would arrest me for Eric's death," Tracy finally admits. "He said if you came back, that I was to run."

"Victor? As in Mr. Gilman? Your boss?" you ask to clarify.

"Yes," she says, choking back a sob. "It was him. It was all him."

You wonder why the young girl just didn't admit this before, but fear will turn even the strongest of human beings into mush. She had watched her boss kill her friend. Gilman must've tried the same on her, but didn't have time to finish the job. She feared for her life.

You feel anger at the thought. He must've threatened her afterward. Maybe the choking wasn't meant to kill her at all. Maybe he choked her as a warning of what could happen. Then he told her the lies about being arrested for a crime she didn't commit. You're angry and you want Gilman's head on a chopping block. What you don't have, however, is hard evidence on Gilman.

Both you and Sofia finish up the questioning, then step outside.

"What do we have on Gilman?" she says, after she shuts the door.

"Uh, location, opportunity but no motive," you say resignedly. "And still no murder weapon."

"Tracy didn't have much motive under her belt either," Sofia remarks. "We still don't know if she's telling us the truth."

"I dunno, I feel like she is," you say confidently.

"You saved her life, Greg. If not for you, that car would've mowed her down," Sofia reminds you gently. "I shouldn't have to say this to you, but you need to distance yourself from her and you need to do it now. You're going to want her to be innocent so badly, that it'll cloud your judgement. It could cost us this case. Hell, you practically spoon fed her that confession."

"It got her to talk," you argue.

"C'mon, Greg, don't give me that," she scoffs. "Either way, we need more on Gilman. Until then, Tracy remains here."

The detective stalks away and you groan. Boy, Sofia doesn't know the half of it. You've attempted to save Tracy's life four times now. This time, you got it right. You are connected to Tracy and there's no going back. You look through the door at the little girl lost and vow to make this right. You know that Gilman attacked Eric, then Tracy. Now you just have to prove it.

You check your watch and sigh.

You have to prove it in the next couple of hours before sleep claims you and dooms you to another repetition of this day.

-------------------------------------------

You blink your eyes. It's nearly 10 o'clock in the morning. Your eyes are drooping, but you're fighting off the sleep with more tenacity than you expected.

You've got all the evidence laid out before you. You're hoping you find something that you missed. You hope to find the answer before you can't fight off the sleep any longer.

Nick and Warrick had stopped by, asked if you still wanted to join them on the bar crawl. You told them no, again. This will be about the tenth or twentieth time you've refused them. Sara stopped in too. You gave her a defeated expression, you apologized a million times over and said you just couldn't have breakfast with her today. You had to stay here. You had to solve this case.

"She's under your skin, Greg," Sara warned.

"I know," you said back. Then Sara was gone. You fear she went back home to Grissom to sort out whatever happened between them. No matter what you do, Sara belongs to Grissom. No matter what you do, that murder weapon remains hidden and Eric's true murderer a mystery.

You need to go back to the beginning. You need to get your facts straight.

So what do you have? The victim's clothes. You tried to remain objective. You scanned his clothes for any blood, any transference of Tracy's blood to his clothes. There was nothing but the dirt from the alleyway on the back side of his shirt.

You have Eric's wallet. You found a picture of he and Tracy together, smiling. That confirms that they know each other.

You have Tracy's bloody tissue. A nose bleed? You don't know. You forgot to ask.

You have the pictures of her bruises and of Eric's ligature marks. They match, but you still have no murder weapon to compare them to. Rope, maybe. You don't know.

"Greg, why are you still here?"

It's Grissom. Odd. You would've thought he and Sara would've left at the same time. You shake your head. You have to rid your mind of thoughts of them! Focus on the case.

"I'm missing something, Gris. I know I am."

"What does the evidence tell you?" Grissom asks gently, walking in to take a look.

You look down at it again. Such a loaded question, you think. You talk it out. "That Eric was strangled. The bloody tissue places his friend or girlfriend, Tracy, at the crime scene. They both have the same marks on their necks. Grissom, I think they were both attacked by the same person. I don't think Tracy committed the crime."

"Any other suspects?" Grissom says, his eyes squinting inquisitively.

"Just one. Mr. Gilman. Unfortunately, all we have is the word of our other suspect and she hasn't been too forthcoming with the information. Like Sofia said, I practically spoon fed her the story," you sigh. "I messed this up again."

"Again?" Grissom catches your slip up quickly.

"I mean 'again' as in general," you try to cover up. "Ever since. . .ever since I hit that kid, I can't keep my head on straight. I feel like a rookie all over again."

There. You got it out. The civil suit. Hitting the kid with your car. Maybe that's what really has you all tied up in knots, lately. Maybe that's why you've been so distracted. Maybe that's why you've been hitting on nearly every female specimen in the lab. Are you trying to prove something to yourself? That you're still a man? That's you're still Greg Sanders? Is this why you're repeating today? To find yourself again?

"Greg, no one is perfect," Grissom says. He might have even quirked a smile at you then. "We all make mistakes. We're only human. As for the civil suit, all you can do is tell the truth. You know what happened."

You nod. "Yeah, thanks Gris."

"Go home, Greg. Get some rest. You have found out all that you will for today," Grissom advised and then he was gone.

You sigh, start packing up the evidence, then stop. In true form, Gil Grissom has provided you with the answer. You repeat softly, "You have found out all that you will for today. . ."

"_You saw Eric's killer, just as he was finished his dirty job. You tried to help Eric. You ran over, but the killer hit you. That's when you started to bleed, am I right?" _

"_Yep. Your girl's name is Tracy Marshall. She has priors, her DNA taken for a murder case that dayshift handled two years ago. She was exonerated." _

"_If I could repeat today all over again, I'd bet on a game. You know why? Because I will know who's gonna win!" _

"_Ligature marks around his neck would suggest strangulation. Liver temp would suggest time of death was a few hours ago. Maybe less." _

What an idiot you have been! The answer to all your problems, to solving this case, had been in front of you the entire time. The answer was presented to you on that very first day. You know the time of death.

You'll be passing out soon. You can feel it. So, what will be the plan for when you wake up again?

Liver temp suggested time of death was a few hours _before_ you arrived at the crime scene. If you wake up at 1 o'clock in the afternoon, that gives you plenty of time. It's just like Nick said. You've repeated this day enough to know who's gonna win a basketball game. Well, how about stopping a murderer from taking an innocent life?

One o'clock wake up time. You'll have plenty of time.

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

Lyrics play and the words sound melodious.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

Your eyes snap open.

You scramble out of bed.

You scribble out your rent check.

You skip your shower, throw on something fairly decent, then bolt out the door. You're early. Way early. You won't run into Mrs. Templeton this time, so you tape your rent check to her door on the way out.

Your next stop: the lab.

You slide in and head straight for Grissom's office. They are there, just outside his door and the argument is just beginning. Good. You need to speak with Sara. You storm up and take hold of Sara's arm and state boldly, "I need to talk to you, Sara. Now."

They're both startled, shocked to see you in so early. Most importantly, they're surprised you would even have the gall to interrupt their conversation. Sara is frozen in place for a moment, but she does manage to scold a little, "Greg, I was talking. . ."

"Now _we_ need to talk," you insist. "Please. I'm sorry, really. It's important."

Sara glances at Grissom, who is still somewhat speechless. He waves you two away and disappears into his office. You almost feel like telling Gris that he should thank you for saving him from a Sara Sidle tongue-lashing, but that's really the least of your worries. You tug Sara along until you're in the locker room and that's when she hisses, "What the hell, Greg? What's so important that you couldn't wait. . .?"

You shut her up the only way you know how. Your hands cup her face, pull her forward and smash her lips into yours. The kiss is too quick for her to react rationally and that's exactly what you need. To shock her system.

When you pull back, you begin to talk very quickly. "I just wanted to say that I have something very important to do today. It's really important and I wanted you to know that. I just wanted to tell you that, okay?"

She swallows hard, her eyes wide with surprise. She croaks out, "Greg. . ."

"It's important, okay? _Okay?_" you repeat urgently.

"Okay," she nods quickly, still utterly confused. You finally let her go, kiss her quickly on the cheek again and walk past her. She grabs your arm to stop you and says breathlessly, "What the hell is going on with you today?"

You grin widely. "I don't know, Sara. And that's the beauty of it. I really don't know."

-------------------------------------------

You park your car about a block away from the alleyway. If you have timed this correctly, Eric's murder will not have happened for another ten minutes. A loud crash tells you otherwise. You're late! You begin to race down the sidewalk, round the corner of the restaurant building and slide into the alley to see a murder in progress. Something only you could have predicted.

Mr. Gilman has a rope around Eric's neck. The poor young man is gasping for air, smacking Gilman's hands and losing bits of his life seconds at a time. This is it, Greg. This is it. This is why you're here. Don't turn into a chicken now! Move!

The back door to the restaurant swings open violently before you act. It's Tracy. She screams out, "No! Eric!"

Gilman takes a quick second to smack the charging Tracy across the face and she hits the ground, wounded and bleeding from her nose. He quickly resumes his task, Eric barely moving at all and you can't watch this debauchery anymore.

"Stop! LVPD!"

You mostly shouted that to scare him. You would like to think that it does, if only a little. Gilman sees you, but doesn't let up his hold on Eric. He only pulls tighter. Eric's eyes only seem to bulge more.

Gilman feels none too threatened by your presence as he belittles you. "What? A hero has come to save the day? Go home, boy. There are no heroes in Vegas."

You frown. He won't get away with calling you 'boy'.

Gilman looks up again to see you running at him. His face falls as he realizes you're not a random passerby who would gladly pretend he saw nothing. You're a witness to his crimes. You feel cold wash over you as his murderous eyes take a snapshot of your face. He's out for blood. If you lose, if Gilman gets away, he'll come after you.

You have to make sure that you don't lose.

Gilman drops a nearly unconscious Eric to the ground, readying himself for your assault. That fancy suit and neatly trimmed goatee mask the true nature of Gilman's strength. You go to tackle him and he literally catches you.

"You made a mistake," Gilman says in-between grunts.

You nearly gulp at the death threat. You really hope you didn't. Come to think of it, back up probably would've been a good idea. Well, there's always tomorrow.

You both struggle for the upper hand, feet tripping over feet and bodies trying desperately to remain upright. One of his hands manages to grip your throat and he squeezes. Strangulation is really this guy's thing! You think you feel your eyes bulge, but a quick punch to his gut and he lets you go. You shove him away. You need a new tactic. This wrestling with each other is not going to work. However, you soon discover that close, hand-to-hand combat was probably your best option.

Gilman charges you quickly, sending a kick to your stomach. A few inches lower and you would've been down for the count. You roll away from him on the ground, try to get up, but Gilman grabs your shoulders and helps you to your feet instead. His strength is unbelievable, or maybe you really are that much weaker than him.

He hits you square in the face triggering some bad memories. Some really bad memories. Flashbacks of your attack assail your subconscious. No. Not now. You can't have any flashbacks now. He sends another mind-blowing punch to your temple and you hit the ground again. Hundreds of fists are pummeling into you again. You're being attacked all over again.

No. No! This isn't the same and Eric needs you. You have to save him!

Get up, Greg. Get up!

You miss another kick to your side by mere inches, rolling away and pushing yourself to your feet. Okay, you're up. What next?

Your hands go up to block Gilman's attacks and for the most part, you do. Unfortunately, now you're on the defensive. He's backing you up toward the dumpster. He's trying to trap you.

"Victor! Stop!"

The assault stops as Gilman attends to a hysterical Tracy. She's regained consciousness and has now thrown her arms around your attacker. Gilman easily handles her though, grabbing her wrists and dragging her back to Eric.

You lean against the wall, still recovering. You watch him take a swing at Tracy and she's down again.

"Hey!" you shout, pushing yourself off the wall. Gilman stops and turns to look at you. You spit blood out of your mouth and say, "You were wrong, Gilman. There are heroes in Vegas."

You've never been a fighter. You were on the chess team in high school, for Pete's sake! You've never been a fighter.

Well, maybe it's time to change that.

Again, you run up to Gilman in hopes of tackling him. When he dodges that attack, you start swinging blindly. You shout out in pain, as you finally connect your fist to his jaw. The bone hitting bone really shocks you. You never knew hitting another human being would hurt so much, but it does. It shocks you and it shocks Gilman, as he stumbles back and hits the ground. He doesn't move. He's down, finally.

You shake your hand, trying to regain feeling in those lanky fingers of yours. Then, rough material is around your neck and it pulls. It pulls hard. You grab at the rope and feel the hot breath of your killer on your neck. Okay. Maybe you didn't hit Gilman as hard as you thought. He yanks on the rope harder and you feel all life slipping away.

_If I die. . .will I get a second chance? Will today repeat again as if this never happened?_

You're about to find out.

To be continued. . .


	7. Today

Disclaimer: See the first chapter.

Author's Notes: Thank you all so much for the reviews and the support. I know it wasn't a typical fic, but I wanted to give it a try. Thanks again!

**Rewound**

by e-dog

**Chapter Seven**

**Today**

So this was the murder weapon.

A piece of rope, just as you and Sara suspected. You were also right about Tracy; Tracy was being set up. You were right about Eric's killer. It was Victor Gilman all along and right now, he's about to kill you.

"This is what happens to heroes," Victor hisses in your ear. You continue to struggle. You have to break free. You can't die today. You just can't.

That's when a gun shot sounds off, echoing down the alleyway. Gilman lets up his hold on you. The rope falls away and you fall forward. The moment you can realize your surroundings, you begin to crawl away, gasping for air. There's something warm on your neck. It feels sticky. You immediately suspect it to be blood. Whose blood, you're not sure. Yours or Gilman's?

You hear voices, but nothing really registers yet. The world is fuzzy, spinning. You keep crawling, trying to reach the voice. Then you stop. There's a figure with a gun just ahead of you, but you can't make out who it is. You don't know if they are a friend or a foe.

You don't know if they want to kill you too and everything is so damn blurry! You wonder how long it'll take to see again. How long it'll take to be able to hear everything clearly again. Sure, you've been beaten to a pulp before, but strangled? This is new.

". ..Greg. . ."

You feel hands on your back and voices around you. No, wait. Just one voice. Just two hands. You push yourself up onto your forearms and knees. You can't hold your own weight and fall into the waiting arms of the person who saved you.

Sara Sidle. Your vision is still a bit blurry, but you would recognize that scent anywhere.

"You. . .followed me?" you say, still coughing and getting all your air back. You're getting your life back.

"I have to call for back-up, Greg? You hear me?" Sara says, her voice still a bit distant. "I have to call for back up, do you hear me?"

You nod, telling her that you do. You do hear her. You hear her loud and clear.

"Okay," she says softly, her words whispering against your hair as she gives you another quick squeeze before breaking the embrace. She gently leans you up against a brick wall, before running back to her vehicle.

Tracy. You nearly forgot about Tracy and Eric. You turn your head and see Gilman first. He's on the ground, motionless. So the blood was his. His blood is on you and it makes you somewhat sick inside. You wanted to stop the man, not kill him.

Gilman is lying in a puddle of muck, a gunshot wound to his forehead. No question that he's dead. No, you didn't want to kill him and you didn't. Sara did. Beyond him, you see Tracy clutching onto Eric. Eric's eyes have fluttered open and this makes you smile. He's alive. Your efforts saved his life.

You saved his life.

You turn back to Sara when you hear her boots clomping back toward you. Her arms are around you again and you cling to her with all that you have left. You mutter again through a strained smile, "You followed me."

"You scared me," she admits with a laugh, holding onto you tightly. Then sadness creeps into her voice as she says much more softly. "You made it sound like you were never coming back. It was like you were saying goodbye."

Finally, you feel a bit strength returning, but your neck still hurts like hell. You swallow, before saying, "I just had this feeling...that today would be...eventful."

You feel her body shake from her nervous laugh. Again, you smile.

Sara saved you.

There really are heroes in Vegas.

-------------------------------------------

You open your eyes.

You listen but don't hear the lyrics. You don't here Dan the Man from KMRK radio and you don't hear the traffic report on Scotty's Junction. It's music to your ears.

You look around now, but don't see your room. You're at the hospital. There's an IV in your arm and a hospital gown on your body and it's all so very different from before. It's all different and beautiful and you finally feel that maybe, just maybe today will finally come to a close. Maybe today is just simply today. Not a repeat of today or a repetition. It's just a normal day; a day that will cycle into another.

You check for a clock, but don't see one. You need to know what time it is. You need to know how long you've been out. You need to know if today is really over.

"Hey, you're up."

"Catherine?" you answer the voice, turning your head to see your visitors. Everyone is filtering in behind her. Everyone but Sara. You wonder where she is. Your voice is a bit hoarse, but characteristically cheery, "Hey, guys."

Grissom approaches you first. His face is a mixture of shock and relief. Kind of the way he was the last time he came to visit you at the hospital. Shocked to see you so weak and vulnerable. Relieved to see you are alive. He nods, "Hi, Greg."

"Hey, Grizzle," you joke. You think he actually smiles back.

Warrick is in your line of sight next. "You gave us quite a scare, man."

"Yeah, call for back-up the next time you see a murder happening," Nick chides lightly. "That seems to be your thing now, anyways."

"What the boys mean to say is, they're glad to see you're alright, sweetie," Catherine says. She gives Warrick and Nick a scolding glare, before leaning over and kissing your forehead. She looks at you and asks gently, "How are you?"

"Tired," you admit. "My neck still hurts."

"Well, that man did try to strangle you." The group turns around and reveals Sara leaning in the doorway, arms folded and a stiff smile on her face. She slowly walks in and says quietly, "Feeling better?"

"Much better, thanks," you grin at her.

"Hey, we want to stay, Greg, but duty calls," Nick apologizes, patting you on the shoulder. "Take it easy?"

"Always," you nod. Catherine gives you another quick peck on the cheek. Warrick simply waves as they head out. Grissom exchanges a look with Sara, something you can't read. They all leave. . .everyone but Sara. You ask her curiously, "You don't have to go back to the lab?"

"IAB took my gun and are now evaluating my use of the weapon. So I'm on leave," she explains forlornly. "You know. Routine stuff. I'll be back to work tomorrow night, I'm sure."

"Right, of course, but that doesn't mean you have to babysit me. I'll be fine," you say.

Sara just tilts her head to the side, her eyes softening and her voice smooth and calm. "I want to be here, Greg. I'm not leaving."

She wants to be here. She wants to be here with you. You bite your bottom lip, then say sincerely, "Sara. You saved my life. Thank you."

"Hey, someone has to watch over you," she jokes. "You seem to have this knack for finding people in distress. And nearly getting killed."

"Some people are just destined for greatness," you joke back.

"Yeah, I guess," she nods, her smile fading quickly and her eyes welling up with tears. That's not good.

"Sara. . .," you say.

She shakes her head at you. "You scared the hell out of me."

"I'm sorry," you say meekly.

"You're sorry?" she repeats, deadpan.

You shift uncomfortably on your bed. "Uh, yeah. I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I ran off. I'm sorry I forced you to come after me and fire your weapon and I'm sorry IAB put you on leave."

After a moment of considering you and your words, Sara finally sighs, "Don't be. Don't be sorry. I should apologize to you."

"To me?" you sputter. "But why?"

Sara shakes her head. She doesn't want to look at you. You understand, of course, that Sara is not one to open up freely. You wait patiently. She glances up and tries to explain, "I thought you were just trying to get my attention, at first. I thought that maybe I had. . .been ignoring you. Not on purpose, just that maybe I had let other things take over my life. I had left you behind somewhere between your attack and the civil suit and I thought that maybe you were just trying to reach out to me. Then when I found you. . .that man was trying to kill you. . .I didn't know what to think. I didn't know. . ."

"It had nothing to do with you, I promise," you reassure. "I am curious as to how you found me, though."

She explains, "After you left, I made Archie track your phone. The way you acted in the locker room. . .I had to find out where you were going, what you had to do. When he gave me a location, I was on autopilot. Got in my car, drove like a demon had possessed me. I don't know why I grabbed my gun. . .I just had this feeling."

You reach out a hand and she immediately slips hers into yours. You squeeze tightly and smile at her. "I'm okay, Sara."

She smiles back and then shrugs at you. After a moment, she says, "You told me you had something important to do. How did you know about Eric Quinn?"

You had to figure questions like this would be asked. Fortunately, you made yourself come up with a reasonable account so you could explain your actions. "Have I ever told you about my psychic grandmother?"

Sara frowns. You smile. Well, a somewhat reasonable account to explain your actions.

She shakes her head at you. "Greg, I'm serious."

"So am I," you continue to grin. "Really. I had a dream about Quinn's murder and I just had to see if it was true. It scared me."

Sara smiles at you now, even though she's rather skeptical of your story. "I don't believe you."

"Wasn't expecting you to," you answer truthfully. "It's what happened."

She nods. You're both silent now and you can tell she's thinking over your physic dream story. She'll believe it, for now. It's not that she has much choice in the matter, so she'll believe you for now.

She looks up at you again and says, "They say you get weird after killing someone. That you feel guilt. I'd do it again, if I had to, Greg. I wouldn't hesitate."

You can't help but chuckle, "That's good to know." _Good if I end up going through this all again!_

Hmm. All jokes aside, that does remind you. You need to know what time it is. You need to know if today will finally be over. As casually as possible, you ask, "What time is it?"

"It's nearly 2 in the morning," she tells you. "The paramedics put you under to keep you still and stabilize you. You've been out for about eight hours."

Eight hours. That's not enough time. You still have about another ten hours to go before 1 p.m rolls around. Another ten hours before you finally know for sure whether or not today is finally over. You don't want to spend that time here, in a hospital bed.

"Sara, this will sound weird, but I don't want to be here," you tell her. "I want to be out. I want to walk around. I can't spend the rest of this day in here."

Sara studies you carefully, thoughtfully. With a small shrug, she says, "I guess you can check out whenever you want to, Greg, although I'm not sure why you would."

You push a laugh between your lips. "Hey, I just figured I'm on medical leave, you're on leave. We've got nothing to do, really. Just. . .There are much better ways to spend our time together."

She quirks an eyebrow at you, a slow smile crossing her face.

You cringe a little, realizing the bit of sexual overtones in your last statement. "What I meant was, we could be out somewhere, taking in the sights. You know, I live in Vegas and there's still so much I haven't seen that wasn't decorated with dead bodies."

"I get it," she nods. "Two near death experiences in less than a year and all you want is to live a little before it's really over."

"Right," you nod. You look at her hopefully. "So, will you help me bust outta this joint?"

She grins and stands to her feet. "Let's go."

-------------------------------------------

"Okay, break time," you laugh, falling onto a nearby bench. Sara wholeheartedly agrees and sits down next to you. It's been a busy morning.

It was nearly five o'clock before the hospital finally completed the task of the releasing you. It didn't take you both long to agree on breakfast. You selected that same diner you always go to. Just as a joke, Sara had asked you with a wide smile, "Why do we always come here?"

"It's tradition," you replied merrily. To be honest, the three of you (Nick, Sara and yourself) had deemed this place bad luck for a while. After Nick's car was stolen and all evidence within it lost, you avoided this place for about a month. It wasn't too long before the call for herbal tea and runny eggs beckoned you all back.

After breakfast, Sara drove you around until you found the most perfect of spots to spend the rest of your day. A little carnival not too far from the city complete with Ferris wheel and a House of Mirrors. Probably not the best place to be, especially with a sore neck and sore muscles, but the pain is worth it. Especially since Sara is with you.

You're almost certain you all worked a case here a few years ago. Something about a roller coaster flying off the tracks. Sara must have been thinking the same thing because you both avoided any rides that took you high above the clouds or shook the passengers violently. You settled on the Tunnel of Love and played a few booth games. Won a few prizes.

"I can't believe you've never had cotton candy," you tell her. She laughs. You like to hear her laugh. It's something she doesn't do nearly enough lately.

"Not until today," she admits, holding up her bag. "I missed out on a lot of childhood goodies, I guess."

You know she tries to hide it, but you hear the sadness anyway. You've heard things about Sara. Awful things. Stuff about her mother and father. Foster care. She's never outright said these things to you, of course. She's a really private person, but word gets around the lab. You think you have a good handle on what life must've been like for a young Sara Sidle. You hate knowing that such a genuinely good person would have to suffer through something like that.

"Well, we'll work on that," you say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "We'll spend an entire day experiencing all those things kids should experience. Like bruising your knee after falling off a bike or throwing a video game controller into the tv after the boss level crushes me for the hundredth time in a row."

"Yeah, maybe we can do that," she says, unable to keep from grinning at you. She rises to her feet. "C'mon. It's nearly noon. You need to sleep and so do I."

Noon.

There's one hour left and the funny thing is, you're not tired.

-------------------------------------------

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

Lyrics begin to play and you strain to understand them. They sound foreign. No, really, they do. You know it's English, yet you can't understand them.

You stretch out, your tired limbs achy and sore. You move slowly, testing each piece of your body just to see how it feels. Bruised. Hurt. Tender. The way a body should feel after its been beaten badly. You gently touch your neck and cringe at the pain. Yep. That still hurts too. You want to smile, but no, you have to check everything. You have to be sure.

You roll out of bed. You look down at yourself and see the same clothes you were in yesterday. You still hold back the smile. Check everything first, then celebrate.

You walk out into your living area and that's when you know that the cycle is finally over.

Sara Sidle is spread out on your couch, dead to the world. Without a moment's hesitation, you merrily skip up to her and shake her awake. She sits up quickly and says sleepily, "Something wrong? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," you say, your voice high-pitched and giddy.

She frowns. "Then why did you wake me?" She pauses and adds, "And why are your grinning at me like that?"

"You're here," you smile at her. "You're still here."

"Yeah, I told you I would be here," she says, suppressing a yawn. "You were half asleep when we got here, though. Wasn't sure if you heard me or knew what planet you were on, for that matter."

"I was half asleep?" you say.

She grins now. "Had to drag you up the steps myself. Good thing your landlady was around. I wasn't really sure where you lived and you weren't coherent enough to tell me. She unlocked the door and let us in."

Good Ol' Mrs. Templeton. Always looking out for you.

"Greg?" Sara is calling your name, but you're not sure what to say. It's after 1 o'clock in the afternoon and Sara is still here. It's after 1 o'clock in the afternoon and you have all the evidence you need sitting right in front of you. It's Sara. She's still here. The cycle is broken.

Her hand waves across your face, "Earth to Greg. . ."

You snap out of it and say again, "I can't believe you're still here. I just. . .It kept happening over and over. . .Now it is over! I just can't understand how. . ."

She yawns, not really listening to you. Good thing. If she were listening, she might think you're crazy. She finally interrupts your rambling. "Greg, what time is it?"

"Uh, a little after 1," you answer confidently.

She rolls her eyes and lets her head hit the couch cushion again. "Greg, we've only been back for 15 minutes. Go back to bed."

Go back to bed? Gladly. On one condition.

You waggle your eyebrows at her suggestively, "Only if you join me."

You are promptly hit in the face with one of your couch pillows courtesy of a slightly bemused Sara Sidle.

"Ow," you whine. That actually did hurt, your sore neck twinging in pain from being nearly strangled to death.

"Oh, damn it, I'm sorry Greg," Sara immediately apologizes, sitting up. She rubs your shoulder, her expression so gravely concerned, it almost makes you laugh.

"It's okay, Sara. No harm, no foul," you promise, rubbing your neck. "I'm just glad you're still here."

She half smiles at you now. "You keep saying that."

"It's true,," you say, then rise to your feet. "Night, Sara. Sorry I woke you."

She sleepily replies with a 'good night' of her own and you tip-toe away. You make it back to your bedroom doorway and stop there. You lean against the doorframe and watch her. You make a silent vow to be there for her, no matter what. It's the least you could do considering she saved your life today.

You jump a little when she snores and you grin at the thought. Sara Sidle snores? You weren't even aware that she knew what sleep was, but then again, your visions of 'workaholic Sara' are not what they used to be. She's so much more than that and now that you know this, you won't give up on her.

No, you won't give up on her. You really want her to be happy and if Grissom does that, then so be it. However, if that doesn't pan out, if Grissom and Sara are no more, you'll be waiting.

You'll be waiting and you'll be ready.

After all you've been through, you're ready to take on the world.

The End


End file.
